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Wilfrid J. Halliday
The Gleam
I SEE, I feel, I sometimes know
And penetrate the soul of things.
I've sipped of streams that sometimes flow
From mystic, unimagined things.
For one brief moment have I strayed
In pastures clothed in sparkling dew,
And fed on fruits the gods have laid
Of wondrous taste and goodly hue.
Heaven judge my soul by that brief bliss
And pity me that I am lost
So oft in clay, and seem to miss
The path that beckoning gleam has crossed.
To-day
NO longer art, but artifice,
No unrefracted ray:
No streamings from the infinite,
No rough, inspired way:
No motive selfless, free from taint,
But "will it pay?"
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