Invocation Poem by Anna Johnston MacManus

The steeds of the Black Wind race
Frost-shod and fleet,
Where you hide from my love your face,
And stay your feet:
In this rose-rimmed quiet glen
I bide, and pray
Through the star-filled gloom, and the day,
For your voice again.

The flames on my hearth leap red,
Each a slender spear,
My bosom awaits your head,
And to charm your ear
I have wonder-tales without end,
Fond words untold
Or the spell of a harp of gold,
As your wild moods tend.

Oh strong man! man of my love!
With eyes of dreams
Pools of the dusk where move
No starry gleams:
Come from your storm-girt tower,
Come to my side
And sweetly your sheath of pride
Shall break into flower.

When the arrow ends its flight
You will lonely grow
For a woman's kiss in the night,
And her breast of snow:
You will reach your arms to the Dark,
And call and cry,
As the wingèd winds sweep by–
But no ear shall hark.