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. Suburban Dames
2. A lady and I were walking
3. My heart is a pomegranate full of sweet fancies
4. Why does she put me to many indignities
5. How funny it would be if dreamy I

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