Eleanor Farjeon

My Knowledge Is--

My knowledge is, that I am one
That never will behold the sun,
But only on his image look
As a veiled thing that scarcely stirs
Under the silent pool-waters,
Or tossed beneath a restless brook,
Blurred light from blinding glory spun.

That I shall never feel the sweep
Of pinions from my shoulders leap,
Golden and beautiful and strong
To whirl me higher than heaven and all
Its stars, till there is nothing else
But a great glitter of air, and song
Out of the mouths of a wheeling throng
Which has found, and chants like a triumph-call,
The Miracle of miracles.

Only, a little dead-gold feather
Came drooping once through the misty weather
Into my hands, all frayed and fine;
And underneath my breast as it clings
Whenever I feel it feebly stirred
My soul imagines a blaze of wings,
They are of neither angel nor bird,
That at the sun's bright passionate springs
Beat up a splendour constantly
And make wherever they flash and fly
A fiery wind in the over-ether.

Mirage and shadows, these are mine.