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An Imperfect Life poetry by Fr. Harold Macdonald |
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Dancing
The Spirit dances lightly on Her feet Her laughing eyes engaging, seeking yours, while you upon your heavy labours pour your turgid, concentrated, mental heat; as if the truth were known by weight alone; as if simplicity and joy were false and wicked were the jig, the trot, the waltz! No sticky honey should impede the drone! Retain, they say, each aspect’s proper place a time to dance, a time for serious things; excessive happiness, a greater misery brings. Be known as sober, pleasure not a trace; Thus when the Spirit takes your calloused hand tell Her: the dance is not what you had planned.
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