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date: 1920-04-05

names-on-the-page: Mrs. Smith; Mrs. Allen

transcription: April 5, 1920 - Page 2

Behold, upon a path agone I see
In an early hour upon the hillock's brow,
He of youth, no longer youthed.
And he strays unto the Eastwa and the coming
Day and there is no singing, for yesterdays
Have flown with grey wings as a host,
Ascending from a field, goeth skyward.

Se followed with this significant poem to Mrs. Smith:

-The Temple-

Oh I, my beloved, am a temple with a gate
Of scroll, a golden-scrolled gate.
And within me burneth an altar, a fire
Of sacrifice upon which I sift my days
In an ash of doing.

Oh, I am a temple with a gateway of scroll
A golden gateway and thou, my beloved, a dove
Who bruiseth its breast at the golden
Wicker. We together, yet apart
And the fire upon the altar burns
And the ash sifts and I hear
Thy wings lapping at the scroll!

Mrs. Allen was asked how she liked to be a grandmother and she said,
"I have just begun to live." Patience took it up and gave her this
song:

-The New Day-

Day to me hath been a monk
With a waist cord knotted, and a cowl;
A grey monk who toned dull prayers,
Dull prayers, knocking the hours listlessly
As the step of his sandals.

Day hath been such a monk
To me and I would have had him
Fling his cowl that I might see
His eye, might watch his lips
For a sudden smile, but he denied me,
Telling his beads in monotonous cadence,
And I have used magic upon him.
Yea I have dipped my fingers
Unto the honey of Eternity and fondled
The hours, declaring my soul
In a chord of ecstasy, and watched
And he lifted not his head.

Con'd

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