Post by Ken_Nye on Feb 26, 2010 23:23:46 GMT -5
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendor in the grass,
Of glory in the flower,
We will grieve not;
Rather find strength in what remains behind
William Wordsworth
It was Wordsworth who introduced me to
the verbal celebration of the glory around us:
the miracles hidden in the dirt and rough
of fields and lawns;
in the sparkling speckles of mica,
sifted through stone outcroppings;
in the fugue-like melodies tumbling out of mountain brooks
as they wend their way through forests smothered in a silence
that sings.
It was he who set out in words
a vision of who we are and from whence we came,
who spoke of clouds of glory
floating like halos
over the infants we held in our arms.
Wordsworth felt the splendor fade,
diminishing as he aged.
Yet when I read his words again,
the pictures not only brighten the sky
of my burgeoning sunset,
they waft over me a joyous soft breeze
of comfort and assurance
that when the sun sets,
I will float back through those clouds of glory
and find myself where I began.
