Tuesday, March 6, 2012

Poem Without a Name

'Tis little I have to give.
A flute to play a broken strain;
A prism to catch the light; a seive
To sift the seashore for a grain.

He who searches for a tale
Would grasp the glistering stars that shine,
And he who seeks the Holy Grail
Shall find at best a cup of wine.

Who then shall find the holy cup,
Or who shall grasp the starry strands?--
Must needs be small, and lifted up,
To pass into the Faerie lands.

No man can climb this mountain rare:
It is a blessing given, not bought,
To find the door, and enter there,
To drink from that immortal draught.

'Tis little I am, in sooth:
A candle-stub that longs for flame;
A cracked glass to reflect the truth;
A poem without a name.

But Thou art greater; Thou canst make
The broken flute to play aright--
The lame to walk, the sleeper wake--
A candle-stub set all alight.


  1. Thank you for starting posting poems again... I love them.

  2. You're welcome. I am always so grateful to hear that someone else can find joy in them.