Wise with wisdom born of sorrow, smoking, thinking in the cool,
Reckoning him God’s new apostle who is busy being kind,
Hearing angel voices chant it in the music of the wind—
Chastened, lonely, and so weary; making Home,
Praying God to pardon what you’ve been because your eyes were blind,
Making Home.
COULD I HEAR THE KOOKABURRAS ONCE AGAIN
May a fading fancy hover round a gladness that is over?
May a dreamer in the silence rake the ashes of the past?
So a spirit might awaken in the best the years have taken,