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Photo by Robert Nielsen © 2000
Wherefore canst thou feel as if thy cohorts could read
Mine own intentions, as their own?
Have they some field, per se, the portents of calm pre-emptive energies,
Far above those of our Dear Creator, yet have they not,
Within their ownselves, responsibilities to mine own agency?
Or, believest thou the wagging togue is wiser than the prophets' songs?
My gift to thee's the sage's tow, not beholden to hours of fruitless toil,
But, of the diamond's glimmer fell upon the pewter bell
Illuminating those paths sought but in a bright day's searches,
A dull resounding listing, heard ringing, echoes through the forested dell.
Seek not after that which thine own understanding doth flee,
For it can only elude thy pursuance, along.
A tale, a tale to which thou hast given thine ear is ringing in thy belfry.
And, thou hast heard, delighting in an importune of vainer lucre.
Art not thine own intentions but a curse to thine own portentions?
If, in thine heart, to thee thou art true, is not this the blessing of thine own song?
