my breast, to make it rise just so as though
alive again? What is this subtle sting
which makes it beat and pound and of a sudden glow
from a fine venom i cannot resist?
Is it the strain of life applied to me
through memories which from seasons past persist
as ghostly breaths of passing ecstasy?
Or is it not a remnant, but a state
of coming back again to that sweet thing
which never had its birth in time or space,
but through God's grace has e'er allotted been?
It is the latter, i would say if asked,
which now consumes and sets my mind to task.
-------
(If asked, again and e'en again i'd say
it is the last which takes my heart in hand,
to guide it on and lead it not astray,
even if held but by one fleeting strand.
And may it never falter, never break,
that final string of hope i yet have left -
may it hold ever strongly enough to make
me not of light or love ever bereft.)
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