Henry Bellamann

I OFTEN spend week-ends in heaven,

And so I know him well.

Most times he is too busy thinking things

To talk;

But then, I like his still aloofness

And superior ease.

I can’t imagine him in armor, or in uniform,

Or blowing like a windy Caesar

Across the fields of Europe,

Or snooping in my mind

To find what I am thinking,

Or being jealous of the darling idols

I have made.

If ever that slim word—aristocrat—

Belonged to anyone, it is to God.

You should see him steadying the wings

Of great thoughts starting out

On flight—

Very like a scientist trying a machine.

Patrician, cool, in a colored coat

Rather like a mandarin’s;

Silver sandals—quite a picture!

I can’t see him

Fluttering in wrathful haste,

Or dancing like a fool.

I don’t go there often—

Only when I’m at my best.

I save up things:

Pictures of the sea wild with white foam,

Stories of engines beating through the clouds,

News of earth in storm and sun,

Some new songs—the best.

He’s fond of being entertained

With what I choose to tell him of myself—

Very kind about tomorrow,

Indifferent of yesterday.

He’s like that—

God in his heaven—alone.

I know, for I made him, put him there

Myself.