Poetry
The Scribe
ARISE, Saint Aodh, and find, on rising From that stone bed and quilt of rain, Your fish-plate laden by the otter, While dormice glean your share of grain.
Come slip your penknife, slice the white quill, Bless your vellum, then design, In inks of heather-top and holly, ' The glitterings of holy minds.
Here moss and still prayer hush your green house No candle saddens that cold floor, But water holds your stretch of daylight, Till moonlight stands inside your door.
Clouds, blurring out deep mountain bushes, Smooth waters, turning not a wave, Have steeped your island in a silence, Greyer than the heron's shade.
Then rob still heaven of its secrets ; 0, give us then, in earth's green name, Dark knowledge from a listening forest, Grey wisdom from a day's pale flame R. _HIGGINS,
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