The Medium by Zora Cross

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Who has not felt between the dreams of night
   How larger vices mingle with our own,
   And in full major to our minor tone
Roll out sonorous melodies of Light?

With thunderous surge of wild desires and fierce
   They burn the banners of my brain to air.
   O God! that one hot thought my soul might pierce
To ease the terror of a world's despair!

I grip my hands with force unconquered yet
   By the slow tides of Times I cannot stay.
   My pen bites, scorching, in its young wild way,
But the old tears upon my eyes are wet.

O futile hand! O silent, breathless flute!
   How the great songs throb anguish on my ears,
   Hurling their harmonies down all the years
When I, poor fool, of every sound am mute!

Be still! be still, immortal souls of song,
   Rending my heart with agonies your own!
   Shut out your music. Leave me cold and lone,
Or use my life to lift your dreams along.

Oh, if you need a pen, here is my soul,
   Here is my body's blood for ink of fire.
   Write, write with me your paeans of Desire,
Or break this flute and loosen your control.

First published in The Bulletin, 13 March 1919

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This page contains a single entry by Perry Middlemiss published on March 13, 2014 7:37 AM.

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