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How leavened my soul to search,
   
   wooly and wild to the waxxen wind,
   
   how swift my wings though my fancy yearns,

   catching sights amorous upon its brim;

The cradled seeds of creation

   the Maker in His woody shop,

   sprinkles sprouts randomly met

   for a sorry soul elated;

One star the more gleams the dewdrop,

   nourished and manifest,

   to harps and moons are thee wed

   
The Great Forger feigns the ill-fraught   

   with great depths deep in denizens denied,

   to loftier climes spirited to love

   the angels teach and none shall hide;

Two thousand years weaning 

   the maternal whisper;

   for thy father his oak of strength,

   mother her rose most crimson ----

With lips imbued with forgiveness,

   from darkling to light thee fled;

   Rider of moonbeams, 

   and scarlet heavens!

      
Ever a wise seer donned a thick brow,

   cared little for bickering and wails of spite;

   spawned meadows of sagebrush 

   with courtly bow,

   solved mysteries delved in the deep dark night;

So it was with a heaven's wish,

   from high courts spirited as winter-wine

An eternal bloom to temper eternal fate,

   all the islands spiral-hissed,

Though given all gilded history and time,

   sleeps still, blushed in rose-less age


All earth's foundations steep in wine,

   rivers rush flushed in silts burgundy

   where the vein of the world's heart

   winks to find ----

A fashionable flavor outliving the rose 

   which wilts;

The saturated soul craves

   the lingering tear, oils to wet ----

   the stoic machination,

Shades that spin the iron palette;

   none to bore the firmament of good cheer,

   to plant the common of every nation,

Curious to know what makes saints pure

   and good men gallant ----

   (gents of a few so proud)


The King walks His garden

   calm as a fixed star,

There He finds the still pleasantries 

   and the birth of tongueless voices,

   all the growing endures

   and never strays too far;

Wisdom speaks in waiting din

   and there remains gently loitered,

Who can hear the Voice of Wisdom

  in the rattles of rancor?

What Voice speaks louder 

   than the soft dewdrop,

   or the wild waterfall teeming with life?

The winds whistle names of quiet souls 

   chattering in breeze,

   they speak easy 

   through the cracks of heaven's door

   (eternal sons of the waiting land)
        

(Dedicated to the the Glory of the Sonship)
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