135

date: 1920-04-03

names-on-the-page: Mrs. Curran

transcription: April 3, 1920 - Page 5

She followed with this beautiful song:

-The Homing Song-

Today I flung a little song free,
A whimsey [whimsy] snatch born in an instant
Of joy. With little thought, I spilled
A whit of golden wine from the cup
Of my hours, weaving a lay
Of the spilled drops.

Today I flung loose a little song.
'Twere half glad, half sorry, and I would not
Have it all of either of the twain.
In some eon hence when I search
Through a chasmed darkness, seeking
Some real thing, some labor
Which is mine, a fitting thing to bear
Unto the Mercy Seat, what
Should this song descend as a falcon
Upon a lady's hand!
-----------------
-What is Love?-

What is love, that strange kinship
Which welds us one unto the other?
Flesh begot of flesh, cleaved,
Through its mystic power. Alien flesh
Through its holy bondage, one.

What is love? An armour [armor]
Or a disarmer? For I am defended
Either by its enshroudment or by
Its loosing. What a shield?
I may not fling it from me.
A magic mail.

What is love? Oh, methinks
'Tis the intrusion of God!

During the conversation which followed, Mrs. Curran said "I am going
to write another now." Patience said: "At the trick!"

After a pause for the laugh, she said:

"Morning is but man's consciousness of light; thereby hath man
acknowledged his limitation."

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