What ache first calls us from rest, Bids us rise and dress As if all were solemn consequence? The mind that ages in its fears, 5 Grows tired, rants and tears, As if every thought were sense? Until heart and soul and all Are beaten out of gold, No dying triumph's made. 10 Until eye and mind first sprout Golden tenderness, there is nothing out That cannot fade.
From the collection "Unimagined Things"
Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
More information available on gregglory.com.