Finis Coronat Opus

A note wafts o’er The crowd of richly robe-d folk Whose glasses tinkle as they joke And laugh, as freely flows champagne And foods of every sort and name. A note wafts o’er And silence soon will overtake The room, as conversations break And eyes search swift for pleasant sound That dances gay, and lightly bounds. A note wafts o’er And halls that late were filled with noise, And chaos, speeches, grating voice, Now, hark, are filled with glorious lay, As Music’s magic weaves her way. A note wafts o’er The silent crowd, as spellbound, they  Give ear to rhythm, tune, and sway, As waltzes, airs, and symphonies, Drift through their cares with perfect ease.

I sit in corner dimly lit With volume held in hand, Prepared to span the depths of it And chart yet unknown lands. Perhaps a dragon in his lair Is hoarding stolen gold; Or boldest prince and maiden fair Fight ancient demons old. On pages worn, there live such beasts As speak with tongues of men;  And hidden gardens lost beneath The moors and heathered fen. Such grand adventures readers may Live oft, inside their minds; Such portraits books and tales do paint,  And propagate their kind.

O’er thirsty land, where grasses dry And limp fade ‘neath the burning sky, Now torrents pour from clouds aloft, To knead the earth and make it soft. Down floods the rain, unceasingly, The empty streams now swell to be A raging current, swiftly bound Through forest, field, and sodden ground. And still it pours from darkened skies, Until no further can my eyes See aught but mist and falling rain; Oh, when shall come the sun again?

’Tis but a breath; why idle lie Our hands, when they could fly To aid and help where needs are seen, Where loss and grief have been? ’Tis but a breath; why fallow are Our minds, that ought to spar, And learn, and gain old wisdom borne From ancient ones of yore? ’Tis but a breath; why aches the heart, When Cupid’s pointed dart Has found its home in throbbing chest? Go, seek true love; be blessed.