English poem
Xx
by Archibald Allan Bowman (1883–1936)
It were not well with man did he not feel At home with his own nature, all we are Conspiring with our angel and our star To keep our being whole, or, broken, heal, Lest in some faulted mould the soul congeal. And oft-times ’tis the Highest that doth mar The Perfect in us, straining us too far, And overreaching Justice. Hence the peal Of that great cachinnation echoing woke Appreciation of the lofty use Of comedy, to shake the settling soul Out of itself. The Elemental spoke, And something broadened in me. The recluse Unstiffened, and I felt my nature whole.
HESEPE, 11th June