The Scotch mist swept in from the sea and drifted gently down the hillsides until it covered the land with its drip, drip, dripping, and hid the world from view. So Algy decided to postpone his further exploration of the peat bog until a somewhat brighter day … He sat at the edge of a soggy hay field, and thought of one of his favourite poems, which he would like to dedicate especially to those of his friends who have been struggling with difficulties recently:

          Cold may lie the day,
                   And bare of grace;
          At night I slip away
                   To the Singing Place.

          A border of mist and doubt
                   Before the gate,
          And the Dancing Stars grow still
                   As hushed I wait.
          Then faint and far away
                   I catch the beat
          In broken rhythm and rhyme
                   Of joyous feet,—
          Lifting waves of sound
                   That will rise and swell
          (If the prying eyes of thought
                   Break not the spell),
          Rise and swell and retreat
                   And fall and flee,
          As over the edge of sleep
                   They beckon me.
          And I wait as the seaweed waits
                   For the lifting tide;

         To ask would be to awake,—
                   To be denied.
         I cloud my eyes in the mist
                   That veils the hem,—
         And then with a rush I am past,—
                   I am Theirs, and of Them!
         And the pulsing chant swells up
                   To touch the sky,
         And the song is joy, is life,
                   And the song am I!

[Algy is quoting part of the poem The Singing Place by Lily A. Long, a young American poet, first published in Poetry magazine in 1912.]


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