by Patience Worth
Out of the gray day,
Out from the hungry hours, fare I forth,
Making pilgrimage to that pale, phantom land,
Wherein I may fellow
With the fond images of them,
That people the seclusion of my soul.
Most companionable are they,
With sure mein enhanced,
Bidding me morrow with a smile of greeting,
Which I in turn take record of, and continue
Upon the path of that seclusion which I seek,
That I may let free the urge of my spirit.
Lo, with sure hands do I lay upon a stuff,
Which becometh mine, a material with which
To fashion puppets that move and enact
My imaginings. Thus am I part of that
Strange wizardry-coming beneath its spell.
He is most blest who admitteth his contact
With such a land. Yet he hath put a limit
Upon his soul's pilgrimage,
Who acknowledgeth not aloud
His fellowship with this land!
Last updated January 14, 2019