No More Learning

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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