timelocktoday
Currents
Category: /General/
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The last low whisper of the passing 
And the moon on the green-wrapped hills,
Whatever our name or signs,
My soul to the delight thrills.
It is not in stately stones
Or above the cool creeks swishing,
Or from those on the street or mart,
But from the joys we wasted fishing,
If I could hold within my hand
The garlands where heroes are sleeping,
Not all the pearls in the sea
Could now curb the weeping.
Where so ever I stray and range
on the grass below
I steadier step when I recall
As the breezes blow.
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