These Hallowed Halls

These Hallowed Halls by Michael R. Burch I A final stereo fades into silence and now there is seldom a murmur to trouble the slumber of these ancient halls. I stand by a window where others have watched the passage of time, alone, not untouched, and I am as they were— unsure, and the days stretch out ahead, a bewildering maze. II Ah, faithless lover— that I had never touched your breast, nor felt the stirrings of my heart, which until that moment had peacefully slept. For now I have known the exhilaration of a heart that has leapt from the pinnacle of love, and the result of every infatuation— the long freefall to earth, as the moon glides above. III A solitary clock chimes the hour from far above the campus, but my peers, returning from their dances, heed it not. And so it is that we seldom gauge Time’s speed because He moves so unobtrusively about His task. Still, when at last we reckon His mark upon our lives, we may well be surprised at His thoroughness. IV Ungentle maiden— when Time has etched His little lines so carelessly across your brow, perhaps I will love you less than now. And when cruel Time has stolen your youth, as He certainly shall in course, perhaps you will wish you had taken me along with my broken heart, even as He will take you with yours. V A measureless rhythm rules the night— few have heard it, but I have shared it, and its secret is mine. To put it into words is as to extract the sweetness from honey and must be done as gently as a butterfly cleans its wings. But when it is captured, it is gone again; its usefulness is only that it lulls to sleep. VI So sleep, my love, to the cadence of night, to the moans of the moonlit hills that groan as I do, yet somehow sleep through the nightjar’s cryptic trills. But I will not sleep this night, nor any; how can I, when my dreams are always of your perfect face ringed in whorls of fretted lace, and a tear upon your pillowcase? VII A single stereo flares into song and the first faint light of morning has pierced the sky's black awning once again. VIII This is a sacred place, for those who leave, leave better than they came. But those who stay, while they are here, add, with their sleepless nights and tears, quaint sprigs of ivy to the walls of these hallowed halls.