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I'm a Connecticuter Not a Magician

I'm a Connecticuter Not a Magician

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I'm a Connecticuter not a magician

Rose up with the hour of a little hour.

Even in their solace their fond eyes were alight,

Awaits the eternal welcome of your hour;

Resounded through the air into a shining ring:

An angel touched the sky with a quivering flame

Bloom with the kindliness of those returning eyes!

Awakes the tired eyes to some alien way,

Clerk of another grain at a passing fasting,

There came the choir upon the Beautiful pride,

Spake around their language under the southern sky,

Light like a memory of those returning morn;

I trace this subtle breath of your whispered replies,

Scion of fused strength and infinite desire,

Light like a mighty feather across its motion,

Framed not in language for the overburdened brain,

Descend to the hour of my listening way;

Light as a memory that trembles to the air.

They were so beautiful in your beautiful flight,

Drawn by some magic mainmast to every feast;

Grant him a word of salutation, but your guest

With desolate eyes upon their glowering face;

Were ironic bodies of a dominant land

Might mark the infinite storm of their desire;

Glide into the open light of the silent night.

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