by Winifred Rawlins
Sin is denying the quick murmurings of love,
Faring on bleakly with habitual living, and forgetting
The compassionate lifting of the curtain,
The dear intrusion which for a fleeting moment
Broke through the door to the dull understanding
Like sunlight falling suddenly upon a hillside
And gently withdrawing.
Sin is to put aside as irrelevant
The pure stirring of the mind which comes
Pregnant with thoughts like beautiful strange flowers
Alien to the wintry landscape in which they unclose;
Alien these thoughts to the prevailing frost
Of the mind’s uncaring.
Alien and yet familiar and precious forever,
Speaking of all that the heart cries for it its sanctuary,
Confirming the twilit nostalgia of dreams.
Love’s pure intentions are flashing beacons of light,
Fading and intermittent if rejected,
But growing ever more constant to the obedient watcher,
Guiding him to his home.
from Winter Solstice, Island Press Cooperative, (c) 1952. All rights reserved.