Sonnet — An Invocation to the Master #338
Pristine the sooted lamp that holds piety’s flame,
Pure the bloomed flower chosen for innocence,
Austere the wisps of fragrance rising in Thy name,
This my aspiration’s ritual from earth’s evanescence.
The lamp and flower and incense stand bright
Twixt Thee and me who am uncommonly sullied,
How learned they by Thee to stand upright
When all my labours have only kept me stooped?
Did a dull hour’s burden press on Thy brow
When Thou didst will my soul’s measly curve,
What hand held Thee back on me to bestow
A tranche of light for a little soul-reprieve?
From this dismal camp of unending night
I await Thee O my morning sun bright.