WHITE BIRD
WHITHER, O Bird all white, with ever increasing speed
Do you skim like an arrow of morning the Burden less Archer decreed
On its track to the infinite target as a Thought ever fain of the Deed ?
Bright though the track of the morning, huge though the target loom,
Perfect the Thought of the Thinker, yet may prevail the gloom ?
Dark be the quenching of daytide ? Arrow-tips rust in the tomb ?
O running of Light in the Silence,
O silvery morning star,
May the Dawn be the wordless answer
Of a beauty no loss can mar.
December 30, 1937.
Page-286