142

date: 1920-04-05

names-on-the-page: Mr. Yost

transcription: April 5, 1920 - Page 2

In the tinkle of the sands
Upon the metals I hear thee laughing.
Unto the pit of night unto which I ride
I bear thee as a taper lighted.
In the glamoured day I am transfixed
In the consciousness of thee.
Thee more radiant.
Thee more perfect. Thee, thee, thee!

I need no announcement!
Behold the caravan moves and I have become
A part of the desert's silence.
I am learning how much of Thee
Is mine, through this.

The following also came without comment:

-The Song of Night-

Oh night is a goddess in purple.
With stars upon her breasts - guarded breasts!
And she playeth a lute, the moon
Stringed of beams, knocking the stars
Upon them in a golden dust.
Yea, she plays! She plays!

Night is a goddess in purple.
Her breasts guarded of stars
She sings, yea she sings!
To the lute of night is morning tuned.
For morn is but echo of her song
Flung 'gainst the sun's disc.
Yea, she sings, she sings! Night.

It was remembered how she had gone the round for the company before and
Patience took this opportunity and said:

"I shall set me o' the singin' later, for I be bitten that I let
loose a gladsome singing."

"She probably wants to sing about Easter," said Mr. Yost and Patience
remarked:

"A sarrie commemoration o' a sorry tide! He be a
magi who doth turn such a doleful day unto a thing
which be gladded, wi' the corpses o' the blooms
rottin' aneath a filth-smeared sky!"

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