Celestial Fire and a Friend

The wizard heard the curfew toll in darkness, winding, weary souls
a world of landscape stilled by night, drowsy herds, now dimmed to sight
cowbells humming, geese in flight across the solemn moon...

to his ivy-circled tower, from which an owl in silent reign
purveys his kingdom from its bower o’er the rugged yews and elms
and all who trespass his domain...

the twitter of an incense morn invades his lofty straw-laid bed
and in his beard the night before- the blaze of hearth, a woman’s care
their children waiting for return of knees to climb, of hugs to share...

stories of the harvest rows, of woodland trails, the horse afield
the dandy mocking useful toil, the homely annals of the poor;
of paths of glory, of heraldry, of pomp and power, stunning beauty
of wealth, of grandeur, of perfect smiles that live but once
and then to grave, o’er proud tombs such trophies raised
and choral anthems sung in praise...

here, no storied urn, or bust brazened with a godly gaze
will boast from mansion mantle piece the silent dust of fleeting breath
of honor made, of heart inspired, now swallowed by celestial fire...

here, the pregnant, ample pages fill with blushes, fill with flowers
fill with gems of purest rays, fill with glimmering ocean caves
if but in imaginings...

of dauntless heroes who pain despise, who senates lend their thankful eyes
who do not slaughter for a throne, who love unquestioned, who walk alone
through gates of mercy o’er mankind...

the wizard, cloaked in a veil of light moved noiselessly along his way
paying tributes of a sigh to the lowly passersby,
their names, their years now etched in stone, once but formed by an unlettered muse
that never stayed or looked behind...

now kindred spirits, as if by chance, that shared the warm precinct of day
the newly born, the parting souls, the village voice, the nature cry
rising at the peep of dawn, feet that cast the dew away
that meet the sun in work and play, that know the brook that babbles by...

the wizard found his fragile cross, simple words scratched upon
buried near his favorite tree among the thickets and the thorns:

“here, no fortune, here no fame, here no bounty at his birth
rests in peace, but not in frown- a smile was on him at the last
though melancholy marked his life, in the end his recompense
for all the wayward misery that to all becomes a friend.”