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Without Gift
| INQUIRIES
WITHOUT GIFT
Poorer than the youngest nun
Whose vow of poverty was won
Before her limbs had felt the trend
Of life, I stand before my friend.
I could bring him in my eyes'
Low colored suns, the steady rise
Of moon and stars. My feet have kept
The mark of mountains where I stepped
Warily as a goat. I know
Grey waters flowing from the snow.
But he has lived beyond the earth
And sea and sky. He knows their worth.
Though suns and moons whirl in my blood,
Though beauties assail me like a cloud
Of golden birds that dart and sing,
I cannot give him anything.
Imperially in fire he walks-
I cannot touch him. When he talks,
His words are quickened in despair
That I would give my life to share.
He cannot use the gifts I bring.
I cannot give him anything.