Posted by: W. E. Poplaski | January 19, 2009


by Claude McKay (1889 – 1948).




Now the dead past seems vividly alive,

And in this shining moment I can trace,

Down through the vista of the vanished years,

Your faun-like form, your fond elusive face.

And suddenly some secret spring’s released,                      5

And unawares a riddle is revealed,

And I can read like large, black-lettered print,

What seemed before a thing forever sealed.


I know the magic word, the graceful thought,

The song that fills me in my lucid hours,                              10

The spirit’s wine that thrills my body through,

And makes me music-drunk, are yours, all yours.


I cannot praise, for you have passed from praise,

I have no tinted thoughts to paint you true;

But I can feel and I can write the word;                               15

The best of me is but the least of you.



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