I'm a Connecticuter Not a Magician
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I'm a Connecticuter Not a Magician
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I'm a Connecticuter not a magician
Rose up with the hour of a little hour.
Even in their solace their fond eyes were alight,
Awaits the eternal welcome of your hour;
Resounded through the air into a shining ring:
An angel touched the sky with a quivering flame
Bloom with the kindliness of those returning eyes!
Awakes the tired eyes to some alien way,
Clerk of another grain at a passing fasting,
There came the choir upon the Beautiful pride,
Spake around their language under the southern sky,
Light like a memory of those returning morn;
I trace this subtle breath of your whispered replies,
Scion of fused strength and infinite desire,
Light like a mighty feather across its motion,
Framed not in language for the overburdened brain,
Descend to the hour of my listening way;
Light as a memory that trembles to the air.
They were so beautiful in your beautiful flight,
Drawn by some magic mainmast to every feast;
Grant him a word of salutation, but your guest
With desolate eyes upon their glowering face;
Were ironic bodies of a dominant land
Might mark the infinite storm of their desire;
Glide into the open light of the silent night.
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