A voice whispers in the calm moving day.
We forge great shadows on hospital walls.
What sun greets us as we fought in May,
the distant Autumn whose eyes lov'd these stalls?
In yonder early light the sun still shone,
and the windless eaves beat against the back-toned thought,
in early the grass spoke that dawn was gone,
and we liv'd tomorrow in breathless drought.
So we cross great a many leaping tide,
and the seraph was ours to every faithful friend,
the depth of a wild night was theirs to hide,
and light will cross again and strengthen.
We forge each hearth on beating glass wings,
we bang on the golden at crown's distant door,
our silver slender harp as each it sings,
and tomorrow vows its fables like it did before.
When many muse we question the lion's harsh bearing,
the great beast came knocking at zealous hours.
He dregs up those songs that need the hearing,
for his words bellow strongly with the tone of flowers.