When choirs of hours croon us as song,
Heave with each note, hold fast to each second,
Unchain your rapture let it breathe along
To each calm, storm, and all that love beckoned;
Let not your flame be lulled by melody’s gust,
Mercy my malady in not mending course,
Burst into memory, burn all distrust,
I too as smoke ascend to seek my source.
Tis Perhaps in the baritone of days,
In parting where heartstrings are held by “soon”,
In depth of brave wishes that be our dais,
Where I am tone, you is word, us time’s tune;
And when the song subsides unclog your ears,
For us is song bequeathed to all our years.