Although the Godborn words are broken,
the tablet smashed upon the floor,
we keep of it a wistful token,
one whisper born of something more,
as though in boats upon the river
we caught some wind from downward sea
and in its bracing chill did shiver
in hope of someday's destiny.
The words are passed. Their life, now withered,
survives alone in pictured frame,
pressed under glass and saddened, hither
restored to semblance of the Name.
But weep no tears for faded glories,
no sorrow give to flowers dead;
they only serve to hint of stories
within the realms of Heaven bred.
For once we learned the joy of heaven
from rock and tree and breath of air,
and it all tastes and values leavened
with hope beyond what angels dare;
so to this hint of lost things hearken,
for though things pass through deathly door,
this cannot tale or splendor darken:
we, too, will pass, and hear once more.