Spirits in Bondage, by (AKA Clive Hamilton) C. S. Lewis XXVII. The Ass I woke and rose and slipt away To the heathery hills in the morning grey. In a field where the dew lay cold and deep I met an ass, new-roused from sleep. I stroked his nose and I tickled his ears, And spoke soft words to quiet his fears. His eyes stared into the eyes of me And he kissed my hands of his courtesy. O big, brown brother out of the waste, How do thistles for breakfast taste? And do you rejoice in the dawn divine With a heart that is glad no less than mine? For, brother, the depth of your gentle eyes Is strange and mystic as the skies: What are the thoughts that grope behind, Down in the mist of a donkey mind? Can it be true, as the wise men tell, That you are a mask of God as well, And, as in us, so in you no less Speaks the eternal Loveliness, And words of the lips that all things know Among the thoughts of a donkey go? However it be, O four-foot brother, Fair to-day is the earth, our mother. God send you peace and delight thereof, And all green meat of the waste you love, And guard you well from violent men Whod put you back in the shafts again. But the ass had far too wise a head To answer one of the things I said, So he twitched his fair ears up and down And turned to nuzzle his shoulder brown.
Posted on: Sat, 31 May 2014 00:48:51 +0000
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