Eleanor Farjeon (Элинор Фарджон)
My Knowledge Is–
My knowledge is, that I am one That never will behold the sun, But only on his image look As a veiled thing that scarcely stirs Under the silent pool-waters, Or tossed beneath a restless brook, Blurred light from blinding glory spun. That I shall never feel the sweep Of pinions from my shoulders leap, Golden and beautiful and strong To whirl me higher than heaven and all Its stars, till there is nothing else But a great glitter of air, and song Out of the mouths of a wheeling throng Which has found, and chants like a triumph-call, The Miracle of miracles. Only, a little dead-gold feather Came drooping once through the misty weather Into my hands, all frayed and fine; And underneath my breast as it clings Whenever I feel it feebly stirred My soul imagines a blaze of wings, They are of neither angel nor bird, That at the sun's bright passionate springs Beat up a splendour constantly And make wherever they flash and fly A fiery wind in the over-ether. Mirage and shadows, these are mine.
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