Two Sonnets
The older I become, the more I feel The beauty of the visual world. Apart From far-sought landscapes and the painter's art, I so much prize what common sights reveal.
The sky's cloud-armies as they march and wheel ; The winter hues of woods ; the rise and fall
Of waves ; the play of sunlight on a wall— How keen, how dear, how deep is their appeal 1 Is it an irony that I should find My sense grow subtler as the date draws nearer,
The unknown date, when I must quit the stage ?
I might feel cheated, but that in my mind Conviction also grows deeper and clearer,
That death can never write the play's last page.
2 For me my dearest never has grown old : Her beauty, that enchanted me in youth, Enchants me still ; the silken bridge of truth Linking our hearts has never lost its hold.
Down time's fast river fifty years have rolled, Yet shining still the sands of love appear ;
Floods have but helped to wash their nuggets clear,
And fires have only purified the gold.
Through this unchanging joy I apprehend The joy unchangeable. It is a latch Opening a look-out on eternity.
As from a tree-top's whisper one may catch A wind's coming ; or distant, inland penned, Hear from a height a voice, that is the Sea.
R. C. K. ENSOR.
Previous page
