Finis Coronat Opus

In land of progress great and vast, Where countless legends lived and passed, Though young, as yet this nation seems Compared to ancient realms and kings; This people, o’er the decades long Wrought deeds of greatness told in song, And pressed through torment, storm, and war, To honor those who came before. Yet now, in years of rest and ease, Unheard, on deafness fall the pleas To hold aloft the memories old Of forbears and their deeds so bold. For while there once, enshrined in stone, Lay tributes in the legends’ homes, Downcast the pillars lie from view, No vision, strength, or hope imbue. Cast not upon the sodden ground The honor to ancestors bound, And speak their names, and tell their deeds, Lest Time erase the nations free.

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.