For those in solitude, For the beautiful Quaker boy, His limbs supple and alive, His gorgeous hair caught in tight curls, His lips closed, his ears open, Assailed and assailing, For the wind, the effortless sigh, For those near the pools of self-reflection, The edges, the wordless margins, For rapture and grace,
It is so, You are beauty; you are ode and poetry When your voice has stilled,
For those in silence, For the firesides you once frequented, The friends with whom you are wordless in your love, For the trees which once absorbed you so, And the deep inward spaces, invisible spires, Of angels, of simplicity, Of the living Christ who loves you so.
For the low-land grass where I pray, Where affection is grown like young corn pushing through earth, We shall meet there not disheartened by life, For the fledging candles of faith are drifting close, And we bare whiteness, We see with our own eyes, The making and occupation of our peace.
