To the lapsing shores of cold criticism I came, Now so out of love to overwhelm. The wounded heart, spilling grief, Sustains nothing: useless life. 5 Perversely in the air God was hung, Perversely still in air has man sung. I never saw the animal Who grieved and sighed "It is in myself, withal, 10 That I live and die!" By this trembling breath of mine I soliloquize, In death's despite, the fair, the beautiful and the wise.
From the collection "Ascent"
Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
More information available on gregglory.com.