Finis Coronat Opus

So weary grows the heart of late, Amid the storms and winds of Fate That batter sore the vessel small, And set up siege ‘gainst spirit’s walls. What succor can a soul then seek, When battle leaves it pale and weak, And yearns it so for water cool, Refreshing, by a peaceful pool? Yet fight it must, against the slings Of Fortune, and whate’er she brings, And press yet on in battle fierce, ’Til Hope the shroud of darkness pierce.

Words hang silent in the air, Unspoken by the tongue, but there  Between a thought and sound expressed A question, so uncertain, rests. How many things are felt, not said, And sit in shadows with the dead, Yet live they on, as spectres dumb, Hov’ring where no speech has come?

Rest, when weary thoughts abound And fog the mind with clam’rous sound To drown out dreams of peace and calm That bring the soul a healing balm: Rest, when lonely is the heart, And aimless ‘mid displays of arts That catch the eye and whet the tongue, But leave one stranded, far from home: Rest, when body weary grows, And seeks to mend its pains and woes; Such respite is a mighty aid To heal a soul in Light remade.

The world has changed, and those who lived Before, and mem’ry have Of times gone by and lost, now sit With pensive faces clad. The world has changed, and now there walk Young souls, who know not how  The land had wept, and time had stopped, And pain marked every brow. The world has changed; it matters great, For lives it touches still, And if past deeds grow ever faint, Then honor also will. The world has changed, and on it turns, As ages past have done; But let not generations spurn The mem’ries ‘neath the sun.

Naught stirs the heart to swell with pride, Or bids the coward, “Come and fight, And seize your fortune, e’er the day  Is gone, your hope to speed away”, As words with pointed meaning fierce, And music haunting on the ears. For words a hist’ry ancient tell, Of bravest deeds, of twisted spell; And melodies of old bear still The magic of the trees and rills; So fill they souls with beauty great Through cent’ries long, and kingdoms’ fates.

Who will write the lays and songs, And pen the words proclaimed by throngs, When poets we long loved have passed And through the veil they sleep at last? When sounds and tunes from soulless gears Fall meaningless upon our ears, Where are the spirits deep, who feel, And paint with words in world of steel? When heart is gone from music, fair No more will be such song; for there Is kinship in a lay soft sung In words first felt, seen, ‘neath the sun.