He called the sonnet the golden cage, saying, But it has to cage something fairly wild, something that needs caging…
And she said poetry offers a religion of noticing things…that it provides a place to quiet yourself…
And I told my pastor this morning that when I read a few of these pearls strung exquisitely together, I feel Him and my longing for Him is ever more heady and solicitous. And it is wild and in need of caging, and it is a quiet place to find…everything—it is the beauty in all that screams to be noticed.
Poetry is this—a path to His presence.
When in the night my soul dost cease to sleep,
Besotted mind lifts to that wondrous place,
Wherein the day my beating heart dost keep–
The place of you and your most beauteous face.
It’s wild! This beast that sleep cannot contain;
Cupped by your hand the creature frees to fly.
Heart, hammer—thrash—against all other frame!
Your bars of love enfold the highest high.
A quiet place where desperate souls find rest;
Set crowns aside to dine on joy instead.
All who hunger deep, feast–the banquet’s best
And Shangri La is found upon my bed.
This quiet place where wild things dance with thee;
Blood price is paid, the Golden Cage sets free.