THE VoL. LI
MESSENGER MAY, 1925
THELMA
PHLEGAR
God, when at last I come to die I pray that beauty be gone. How could I leave her in the shy Cool silentness of dawn? Ah, it would be a bitter thing To take that earthen cup When frail-sweet chalices of spring Were being lifted up. And buds were breaking over me, And winds were in my face. No! God, grant my Gethsemane May be a barren place.
No. 5