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THE FERRY
By
Gertrude
Cornwell Hopkins
Crossing the golden meadows,
Crossing the stately river,
Moving down to the southward gate with the far-going vessels, Casting my weary stiffness
To melt in the curl of the wavelets,
Flying free in the wind-whisps
Snapped from the top of the water,
Warmed by the early sunlight,
Touched by the self-same magic
That turns the wallowing brick-barge —
To a delicious, improbable treasure of gold
I myself am improbable
The city's tall shadow stalks forward and touches my shoulder:
I am only a useful rectangle
Built in the high walls of Business,
Now that the shadow has stolen my improbable moment of gold.
Contemporary Verse - v01-02
There is no pause (the knack
Is perfect) while his left hand pulls from out a stack
Leather —I think —the track
Curves sharp, and will not let me see
Just what the task . . . But O, I know the moves he makes are three: I see him when I pass to days that are full long to me,
Again at night, when I am free.
No clod—
The face is keen, the hands and arms are lean and tense, like wire. From some far land he came to us: was his desire
To bind his young and vivid life to this, for meagre hire?
He burns, I think. .... .dull fire.
THE FLAME AND THE SMOKE By Gertrude Cornwell Hopkins
It is high, it is far~
Unattainably great,
Yet its rapture releases;
Melted are bonds and, unhindered,
I am at last not less than the thing that I am: Free of the universe,
Swept with pure fires,
Aware, unafraid, of the roaring, tumultuous vastness, Knowing my fire to be one with the core of all life; Set free from limits, definements and edges,
Enlarged by my high adoration,
Stilled even by madness of joy — Thus comes always upon me
The sense of the Oneness I worship, The sense of the Beauty I love.
But always there comes,
Out from the flame of my being Smoke with its wavering fingers Running athwart my joy;
Always the dark fingers weaving Out of the smoke of my sinning Curtains to shut me from God.
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THE FERRY
By
Gertrude
Cornwell Hopkins
Crossing the golden meadows,
Crossing the stately river,
Moving down to the southward gate with the far-going vessels, Casting my weary stiffness
To melt in the curl of the wavelets,
Flying free in the wind-whisps
Snapped from the top of the water,
Warmed by the early sunlight,
Touched by the self-same magic
That turns the wallowing brick-barge —
To a delicious, improbable treasure of gold
I myself am improbable
The city's tall shadow stalks forward and touches my shoulder:
I am only a useful rectangle
Built in the high walls of Business,
Now that the shadow has stolen my improbable moment of gold.
The boat bumps bluntly into its slip— I have done more than cross a river.
CONTEMPORARY VERSE
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