CRAZED.

Otago Witness, Issue 3842, 1 November 1927, Page 74

CRAZED.

They call me dreamer, dotard, zany, Idiot, lackwit, simpleton; Legion, since I have names so many, Will cover all and make them one. Men pass me by with scornful pity (I see it deep within their eyes) Because one day I saw the city Of God in splendid columns rise. They said 'twas sun and cloud and ether, And sun-shot gauze of evening haze— And that the gleaming slopes beneath her Were but the slanting, shaft-like rays. And when beneath the silver awning Of cloud-film huhg across the sky The trees stand hushed at beauty’s dawning. Rapt in a sense of mystery. They seem like men in adoration That lift entreating hands in prayer, Forgetful of their supplication In the bright glory everywhere. Perhaps it’s true —perhaps I’m crazy When, as I stoop above the grass The gold and white of the tiny daisy Make me think of early Mass; Of gold of sconces, white of tapers Burning pale in the shadowed choir; Of dim and fragrance-burdened vapours; Of Christ unseen—and the soul’s desire. Crazy? Maybe: And yet I wonder: Last night, athwart the driven rain, I saw the heavens rent asunder, And heard Gcd speaking, loud and plain. —Fallon Webb, in G. K.’s Weekly.