AN INSURGENT OF ART
by: Fred G. Bowles
a tired lover I rest on her bosom,
- I, the Insurgent of Art
Thou, the Glory,
- Worshipped of Cherubim, leaning toward me;
- Now through the yellowing clouds of the rushes,
- Now oer the music of waters melodic,
- Now from the wavering blue fields of heaven,
- Or from the daffodils soundless pale trumpet,
- Drawing my soul with miraculous ardours!
- What is thy purpose? Ah! What is thy doing?
- White stars are water-blooms set in the ocean,
- Young lives are petals from one burning Blossom,
- Fallen from altitudes starry and primal--
- Welcome the wind that shall blow them to shelter,
- Breathe on their circumstance, shape the Souls eddy
- Separately fire and transform all this wonder.
- I, thy lost lover, long-waiting, have found Thee,
- I, who had seen Thy sheathed colours, descending,
- Melt into violets, flow into pansies,
- Know that the Master hath need of the artist!
- Out of the force of His Being, atomic,
- Came I, and go I, ripe seed of His sowing;
- Reticent, mutinous, still have I found Thee,
- Steadfast I worship, for Thou art so near me--
- Set in a Soul, my one Holy of Holies!
POEMS BY FRED G. BOWLES
"An Insurgent of Art"
is reprinted from The Oxford book of English mystical verse.
Ed. D.H.S. Nicholson. Oxford: The Clarendon Press, 1917.