Catholic Poetry

Catholic Poetry January 9, 2011
BY J. Patrick Walsh, S.J.
In the end,
not valor, ecstasy of motion or music,
high banners or the tricks with which
we spring the mine of passion in the breast
will take us home;
but in the mind,
the cold and wet-walled prison of the mind,
with fetters clanking and the high,
small single window to the light,
the prisoner the soul
will on the involuting, cold and fading trail
persist in searching,
till home he comes–
not like a traveler all stained and weary
whom air familiar bathes in blissfulness,
but like a stone
upon embattled walls from the blue air,
a catapulted stone kicked by the will, 
shattering parapets, roofs and bearing terror, 
drives through the hedge of spears, the lapping shields, 
and striking the solid earth to make it tremble, 
comes at the last to rest.  
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