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I am a seed in the dust,
A live root bedded in night,
And I am filled with a lust
For something the worms call light.
From what seed-pod I was blown
Matters little to me,
Why and by whom I was sown
Or what the reaping may be.
I only wait for my hour
When I shall be done with night,
When I shall thrill into flower
And drink till I die of light.
From On a Grey Thread (Will Ransom, 1923) by Elsa Gidlow. This poem is in the public domain.
If I have wished for skies unscarred by storm,
Shrunk from the grievous bitterness of things,
The days’ perplexities, the nights’ unrest,
The cruel, fruitless beating with clipped wings
The agonies of disillusionment are the growing-pains of Truth
Now I am done with ineffectual dreams,
Kindly play-toys of the unsure years,
And unencumbered, proud and free and light,
With even pulses and a lifting heart,
I mount the future’s twisting stairs.
Stars, turn from your courses,
Stars, stars, I want you,
Spill into my hands.
I have found a new loneliness,
A new strong loneliness,
That no one understands.
I know a new joy, stars,
A joy of the still peak,
The wonder of airs knife-sharp;