Aug 212011
I found little upon my mount
	 That mattered, neither goods nor goal;
	 Sharp hurt came sharp upon my soul:
A little arrow; it little meant.

My eyes centered where they were sent,
	 Zeroed on that nothing 'All.'
	 Some nadir in the sphere, some pall
Kept light from my looking yet.

I was the shadow cast down at noon,
	 Crushed by the heel that casts it;
	 Weary of my little life unlit,
The dark I knew knew I was no one.

When a friend departs the sunny vale,
	 When a cloud rolls over the hill,
	 When water past pebbles ribs and spills,
When sun beyond one sunset sails,

Whose grief shall give that going song?
	 Whose voice vaunt such diminishment?
	 Whose richness re-give what had been lent?
Whose keen increase such goodness gone?

Sorry, the comment form is closed at this time.