Tuesday, November 29, 2005

A Poem Draft

In the city angels spire,
moonlight falling on their wings,
each a harp of mystic fire.
The wind, which is their heart's desire,
sweeps across their starlight-strings;
each quivers, straightens, sighs, and sings.

I heard one night their carols played
across the starlit meadow's grass.
Each note, like some soft lunar ray
upon the breeze would dance and sway
and leap; then lightly would it pass,
like whispers strayed from heaven's mass.

When I once, a blond-bright child,
looked into the sunset sky,
I saw a city, blessed and wild,
never ruined nor yet defiled,
brighly shining in clouds on high;
every sunset it draws nigh.

My eyes, so tired in my bed,
like stones now draw me into sleep,
where all my cares are gently shed
and pictures play inside my head;
and I, within this ocean deep,
grow wise, and angel-counsels keep.

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