Re: The poetry of Philip Britts

DISTRUST

He saw the clouds creep up in stormy herds,
He saw clouds hiding the eternal tors
And clouds like a flock of wild white birds
Winging across the sky towards the moors.

Walking alone he saw the high clouds reeling
In the changing skies,
But his eyes were afraid and seeking,
The voice in his heart was speaking,
And he felt that the clouds were a ceiling
Darkly forbidding his petulant spirit to rise.
 
Solitude mocked silently.
Sickened, he asked, "Oh, has she faith in me--
The faith that makes men heroes?"
Long after the echo, came a faint reply:
"Find in yourself a faith as true,
Faith is made, not of talk, but deeds,
Lest she go loving on, but you--
Go back to a harvest of weeds."

Philip Britts, 1936