“This is a subtle art, ” says she; <br />Her old eyes gleam with secrets rare. <br />“It’s not the boiling cauld, you see, <br />That puts the magic in the air. <br /> <br />It matters little, what is mumbled; <br />The candle flame can’t charge the aether. <br />And many rites are easily fumbled <br />By knowing neither whither nor whether. <br /> <br />No powdered coral can tide the storm; <br />No vaporous draught can call the sprite- <br />It’s thoughts that give a spell it’s form, <br />And love, that makes a potion tight. <br /> <br />Allow the brew to fill your senses <br />And, let the disbelieving grumble- <br />All their dreams lie caged, in fences; <br />Yours shall soar, while theirs will crumble.”<br /><br />Patti Masterman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/flying-ointment/
