The Gong

Love hums in your veins with the deep and heartening sound
Of a temple gong—
The gong of Dai Nippon
That fused into perfect, fastidious harmony
When a girl had flung into the quag of its white-hot metal
Her rhythm of passionate life.

In the dead hours of the day
When men doubt themselves,
When the acrid sunlight appraises them and finds them without due significance,
You touch for your reassurance
The gong!
And its soft-toned thunder, musical, purple, true as earth’s center—
Dignity, power, conviction—
Imposes its harmony:
One may believe in oneself without insulting intelligence,
Life may be full of distinction, or ordered beauty—and magic—
And you are the master!

The rhythm of blood and spirit run true.
When has she failed you?
When withheld immolation
In the fiery quicksand?