Tuesday, June 09, 2015

Poem a Day IX


No moment blessed by joy can ever wholly die,
for joy is of love, and love does not cry
except tears of joy; it is sun against night,
and flows across heaven, splendid in flight,
with flurry of glory and grace in its rush.
As dawn with its warmth resounds in the hush,
as brightness with brilliance falls like the rain,
the world is made new, and fertile with grain:
so, too, in joy's spring do not expect snow,
nor fury of tempest in storms that will blow,
but newness, and greenness, a verdure of youth,
that stands, as unconquered as unending truth.

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