Poetry of Kansas


How sweetly through the silent pal-
        ace courts
        Comes the sound of the king's harp,
And like the incense of the spike-
The voice of David praising God
        floats grandly to the stars!
To his shepherd heart an altar
        stands beneath each living tree,
Each plot of grass becomes a holy
And the wild spaces are Jehova's
Yet, he plans a temple built of
Girt round with ivory and inlaid
        with gold;
But says a hand that's greater still
        than his,
Of whom the prophet Nathan hath
Shall raise the temple up, not he,
        the man of many wars,
Not King David of the bloody
Such strange misgivings trouble me
        of late,
Whether I am indeed the king's
For who can trust a man of many
        loves ?
And yet, no kingly whim should
        trouble me,
For this I know, nor need the
        prophet's word:
The thing that moves beneath my
Is a man child.
Here I create a king!
It matters not if David sing or
Whether my lord has any favorite,
What discourse he holds with
These trivial things
Touch not the Purpose that is in
        my soul.
The music stops. The king comes?
Tell him I am weary and would
Why should I bother with the king
        that is?
What I encompass is the king to be,
I hold the fate of Israel !
I do not praise God, I contend with
Wrestle as Jacob wrestled all night
And take by force the blessing.

__Elizabeth N. Barr.

The High Winds of Home
Elizabeth N. Barr
(Olathe: privately published. 1922)
Pages 37-38

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October 30, 2002 / John & Susan Howell / Wichita, Kansas / howell@kotn.org

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