I think continually of those who were truly great.
Who, from the womb, remembered the soul's
Through corridors of light where the hours are
Endless and singing.
Whose lovely
Was that their lips, still touched with fire,
Should tell of the Spirit clothed from head to foot in song.
And who hoarded from the Spring
The desires falling across their bodies like blossoms.
What is precious is never to
The essential delight of the blood drawn from ageless
Breaking through rocks in worlds before our earth.
Never to deny its pleasure in the morning simple
Nor its grave evening demand for love.
Never to allow gradually the traffic to
With noise and fog the flowering of the spirit.
Near the snow, near the sun, in the highest
See how these names are feted by the waving
And by the streamers of white
And whispers of wind in the listening sky.
The names of those who in their lives fought for
Who wore at their hearts the fire's centre.
Born of the sun they travelled a short while towards the sun,
And left the vivid air signed with their honour.
