Poetry
The Babe
ONCE my feet trod Nineveh,
Once my eyes saw Troy town burn, Now, if Plato tells-the truth, Dipped in Lethe I return.
What was old is offered new ?, What is new was old before ? That which tired mind evolved Mind untired may ignore.
Certain now the fields to me Novel are and unforeseen, Certain too the neighbouring hedge A misty miracle of green.
New the bird-song—very sweet ; New the Moon—and wondrous round, And, when the clouds collect, the fain Falls with a new and pleasing sound.
A horse is new, a sheep, a flower, Bent branch of twig, gnarled trunk'of tree ; The lovely and consistent dawn, The stealthy dusk—both new to me.
New from henceforward all that comes, The prodigal and splendid skies. A fire's warmth, the first shy glance Of lovers' eyes in lovers' eyes.
Every path untrodden yet, Every sound as yet unheard, Every thought within the heart A sleeping thought as yet unstirred.
All to be new-0 envious lot Most blest of all who nothing knows, Most rich endowed whose infant mind Guesses not yet there is the rose.
MONK GIBBON,
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