The Poetry Corner

Touched

By Alfred Lichtenstein

I gladly left The noisy death of the city, With its thousands of leering faces, The yellow night of the alleys. I stride into the broad, Silver sky; The pious limbs glide Deep into gently being. I am in the white brightness Of cloud, meadow, wind. Am tree, am town, am child... How wet are my eyes! Soon the green evening will stand At its silver end... I raise blessed hands - I want to go to meet it -