Song of the Wise Children
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WHEN the darkened Fifties dip to the North,![]() And the day is dead at his breaking-forth, ![]() Far to Southward they wheel and glance, ![]() The spears of our deliverance ![]() Flying-fish about our bows, ![]() This is the road to our Father’s House, ![]() We have forfeited our birthright, ![]() We have forgotten the look of light, ![]() They that walk with shaded brows, ![]() They be men of our Father’s House, ![]() We shall go back by the boltless doors, ![]() To the naked feet on the cool, dark floors, ![]() To the trumpet-flowers and the moon beyond, ![]() And the lisp of the split banana-frond ![]() The wayside magic, the threshold spells, ![]() Because of the sights and the sounds and the smells ![]() And Earth accepting shall ask no vows, ![]() When we return to our Father’s House ![]() ![]() |