C. J. DRUCE

But we should meet in very different wise— On some clear-lifted crest when sunset stills Wide cleansing winds, and transient beauty lies Immortal in the moment it fulfils: Or down a deep glade you should come to me, Moving your limbs with slow primordial ease, With eyes whose calm has caught the mystery That walks at dawn beneath the gloom of trees: Or by the tenderness of a placid stream: Or anywhere where trivial clamours cease, And things irrelevant fade like a dream, That souls may grow articulate in peace. Instead of this, I know what will befall:— The seething station where, urged and confined, Chaotic energies interweave and brawl, And confused sights and sounds beat on my mind; There I shall wait, and feel my spirit's flame (Trained upwards, purged, for that white moment's sake) Flicker, burn thickly, bowing to the claim Of alien currents that I cannot break. For all the folk who come and go, or stand With strained expectant eyes, or talk with those From whom they soon must part, have at command Some part of my unwilling brain, impose Conjectured joys and griefs upon my sense, As they, perhaps, guess at my purpose here; And jealous egotisms feed suspense As the desired, half-dreaded hour draws near. At last a rumble, distant, ominous, hoarse, Swells to a shattering roar that daunts the world; And round the curve, a black embodied force Triumphantly increases, and is hurled Like a great wave upon us, swallowing all. Vague figures wax and wane and fluctuate In the inane, till one, more steadfast-small, Persists, grows luminous, letting penetrate Some likeness of your shape, and of your face Some strange reflected charm: I grope to find A hand with mine in the resisting space, Hear my tongue utter what no thought designed, Weak ineffectual words, unheedful of replies— Questions of tickets, luggage, urge and swarm— But far beneath all this, in secret lies An infant consciousness, yet feebly warm With life, and promise that the time is nigh That crowds or things no longer may subdue, When the dull futile body that is I Shall feel the quickening spirit that is you.