There is creative glory as it was
In the beginning of created things.
The potter shapes his vase, the painter paints
In imitation of the aeon-day
When life itself became an oracle.
But there is ecstasy of colour: clay:
The female essence tutored by the male.
The earth may glow to feel the living plant
Feeding within its breast.
The sky may make
A wake of rapture for a falcon’s sake.
The ether with the cosmos wheeling there
May be illusion quivering to prayer.
And when our bodies: souls: disintegrate
To formless, colourless and silent parts
From these imperfect artists that we are
Building laborious of blood and tears
And fitful sparks of inspirations glow,
Perhaps it happens that we ebb and flow
In newer pulses, deeper, wider, free,
like sap invigorating flower: tree:
like dews upon the morning,
Or like trills
Of skylark music showering the hills.