Feelings run like water from my mind.
I try to catch them as they stream
And pin them permanently to the page
But they, elusive as a dream,
Slip away and run down cracks
And scorn attempts to bring them back.
Others stand dumbly at heart’s door
Lacking the words to give them voice.
Existing as things dimly sensed or felt
They can neither cry, laugh, nor rejoice,
An impotent, half sensed longing ache,
From the mind’s bars unable to escape.
If I could reach to where they dwell
And bring them out into the light,
Nurture and polish and shine them
Until they sparkle and are bright,
Then could those words dance and sing
Of all the richness mortal life can bring?
Some voices indeed can do such things,
Like great Keats on death, or Owen war;
Their voices soar in transcendent sound
With words of beauty to admire or adore.
Such voices are pure, deep and long
And with them they pour forth exultant song.
But I must sing in notes that I know,
And not strain recklessly beyond my range,
So I will tell of faith, love, joy and hope
In words that are simple, direct and plain,
And with pleasure sparkling and bright
I bring these songs out into the light.