Where
are the gilded glimpses?
Where
are the winged things that touch?
Where
are the brushes made of daisies
That
at a single stroke ---
Can
paint the things of the upper stratosphere
Where
Earth’s angels live?
Perhaps,
it is that they have forgotten the way
So
cluttered up with works --- the way
Is
misted and unclear --- and no hears
The
silver bells that there are in the world
To
proclaim it --- to give it voice ---
To
demonstrate the life therein
Truth
is fallen in the streets ---
Love
is seen --- from the wrong side ---
Everyone
grasps for himself --- takes what he can
And
with it worships the things that corrupt
The
spirit within him that was once given him
To
give, born in him to live, that in dying he live!
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