Finis Coronat Opus

A shaded figure gazes o’er The stars and planets cast before His ancient sight; recalls he well When song of life began its spell And in the void of nothingness, There sprang up light and vividness. Before this spectre, all has passed: The birth of stars in spaces vast, The rise of kingdoms great and strong That held their scepters lifetimes long; Yet none have lasted long as he, Creation’s scribe so tasked to be. The countless ages, changing lands, All chronicled in ghostly hand That no mere mortal ever been Could with his eyes of flesh have seen; Yet record from of old is kept, As centuries pass with quickening step. How many years, when day is dead, Shall ancient scribe have on his head? How many worlds have come and gone Before his face, so dull and wan? Or is his life to measured be By days and years, as ours would be? Or is this ghost, who witnesses All that has come, what then will pass, Beyond the reach of mortal doom? For as we here all fade so soon, He sits, and record faithf...

Upon a cliff, that towers o’er A stricken land below, There sleeps, or so says ancient lore, A tree, from gods bestowed. E’er lands beneath had crowned their kings, Or wars of legend waged, This sapling young stood, glimmering, Through slowly passing age; Forgotten now, upon the stone, And brittle in the wind, Yet roots run deep, and sap is strong, It shall not break, but bend. And legends say when spring returns, And wars at last are done, The life within its boughs shall burn Beneath the gleaming sun. So press through winter’s chill and wind, Let hope live in your breast; For soon the white tree blooms again, And lands at last shall rest.

What dreams may come In dark of night, when sleep descends On heavy-lidded eyes; and then Unconscious lies the dreamer, blind To all except his weary mind? What dreams may come When waking fails, and aching heart, That long has kindled hope’s faint spark, Must respite take from toils of day And in the arms of sleep thus lay? What dreams may come In smallest hours, when curtain thins Between the nightingale and wren, And sleepers know not if they wake, Or drowsy, float on slumber’s lake? What dreams may come? No man may tell for certain; such Great myst’ries lie beyond the touch  Of mortal hand. Yet shall dreams come, And go again, before the sun.

Among the frigid, icy hills, Past frozen falls and crystal rills, In cavern hidden from the eye Of any trav’ler passing by, There, kept behind dark walls of earth, In mind of artist springs new birth. Surrounded by rich colors gay, Ensconced in gilded curtains, framed In ebony and sandalwood Behold! fair works that long have stood, And guarded now, lie ‘neath the stone Protected in their safest home. The artist dwells among his dreams, And paints with zeal such beauteous things; As blizzard cries and sends its snow And in the mountains no man goes, Yet painter’s mind springs lively forth, Creating treasures of great worth. In future days, when Time is old, Forgotten tales no minds now hold, And weary is the mortal race, Meand’ring on from place to place, The artist’s tales in color stay And teach to hope for noble days.

Far north, upon uncharted waves Where lands unpeopled lie, And freezing winds chill sunlight’s rays And blizzards fill the skies; There, o’er the treacherous fields of ice, March desperate in the snow A host, unceasing day or night, To eastward slowly go. Against a foe most foul they swore, Who stole a birthright fair, That though this evil shame they bore, Yet great would be their heirs. Upon the grinding ice they press And struggle on, though long And perilous the path lies; yes, And weak does grow the strong. The lays and lore tell of the line That braved the northern lands; Through cent’ries long, their heirs did rise, And legends from their hands.

A weary captain sits alone, His fellows mirthful feast, and home They wend their steps at break of day, For long has been their time away; But gazing into firelight warm, There, stony, is their leader, worn. Of noble house and old was he, E’er ill befell the peoples free And drove them thence, to live in thrall Of lowest men and shadows all, Until, at last, his way was made To seek his solace far away. A name he made, as years did pass, And honor brought his house; at last A Sword against the evil rose To vanquish many mortal foes, And men did flock to pledge their arms, Who to the Shadow brought much harm. But though great deeds this man had done, And proved himself his father’s son, Yet dark became his quiet heart; For long ago, the painful dart Of loss and weariness had pierced His soul, and made his vengeance fierce. So by himself his doom he bears, Through lore of kingdoms, tales of years, And great his name is ever known As darkness deep is overthrown; Though sad and troubled he ...