Poem by Lesbia Harford

* * *

I am no mystic. All the ways of God
Are dark to me.
I know not if he lived or if he died
In agony.
My every act has reference to man.
Some human need
Of this one, or of that, or of myself
Inspires the deed.
But when I hear the Angelus, I say
A Latin prayer
Hoping the dim incanted words may shine
Some way, somewhere.
Words and a will may work upon my mind
Till ethics turn
To that transcendent mystic love with which
The Seraphim burn.

1. Closing Time: Public Library
2. He had served eighty masters. They'd have said
3. All through the day at my machine
4. Child Sun
5. I can't feel the sunshine

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