O MYSTIC WINGS

By Gilbert Parker

O mystic wings, upbear me lightly now,

Beyond life's faithful labour to a seat

Where I can feel the end of things complete,

Where no hot breath of ill can scorch the brow.

O mystic wings of Art, about thee Truth

Makes atmosphere of purity and power;

‘ Tis man's breath kills the spring's soft-petaled flower —

Ye give a refuge for the heart of youth.

Ye give a value for all loss in age,

When feebled eyes search for forgotten springs;

Ye fan the breeze that turns the moulded page,

And carry back the soul to ardent things.

Poor payment can I give, but here engage

I thee to be Love's airy equipage.