Poem February 17, 1945 Issue

The Vision Infinite

PHOEBE S. MURDOCK

An angel came into my quiet room
And roused me from my self-inflicted gloom.
Art thou the child of man, or son of God?
Whose image bear ye—that of Soul or sod?
The angel presence waited for my choice.
And then as if in answer to that heavenly voice,
"Man is not made of human clay," I said;
"The form divinely fair is his instead."
The light that flooded me was not of earth,
For freedom from false self gave hope new birth.