Sonnet 39 'There Is a Restless Stirring In the Breast'
There is a restless stirring in the breast,
A Sap, not even wakened Summer brings…
No song, but the beginnings of a Song,
A few notes hinting unenvisaged things
Seed-words, that – as yet – cannot quite be sung
Foundation-stones of temples yet unborn.
As a hero in the womb still sucks his thumb,
As the shadow of a sapling’s thin and wan,
So does the Spirit of the Resurrection,
Entombed no more, speak softly at the dawn:
‘O touch me not, for I am not yet risen!
Go tell the others that I am not gone!’
And every Christ and angel and elf sings,
The Gladness of the Day, that Easter brings!
4/2/2019
Copyright © Andrew Fairchild | Year Posted 2019
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