If my work is to be good,
I must transcend skill, I must master mood.
For the expression of the rare thing in me,
Is not in do , but deeper, in to be .
Something of this kind was meant,
When piety was likened to a scent.
A smell is not a movement, not in power,
It is a function of a perfect flower.

I only compass something rare
By the high form of willing which is prayer.
A ship transcendent and a sword of fire,
I write my thought in this most ragged way,
That being baulked of beauty, I am stung to pray.