[Written for the Sentinel]


The flying swallow spreads his wings
And spurns the earth, as skyward bent
And on some certain mission sent,
Soars unconfined by lower things.

Why must I plod, when he has wings?
The silence answers: When you rise
From doubt, you too may mount the skies,
Where harmony of planets sings.

This coral-tinted silken rose,
As curling petals soft unfold,
Disclosing heart of clearest gold,
The secret of its sweetness shows.

When Love has purged from all alloy
The shining metal of my heart,
Then, blossom-like, it will impart
To barren wastes eternal joy.

Oh, may my thoughts such heights attain,
Wind-swept of chaff, from false self free,
That hungry hearts may come to me,
And healing crumbs of comfort gain!

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