You, the infinite.
Ever extending, brightened insight.
The constant prayer, the inner silence overlapping.
Jubilation’s chair, hope in repair.
Envisioned spectacular ceremonial mapping.
A heightened accord, a breath-full of words.
A heart-warmed ford to breeze through the formless.
Your subtle starlight, strumming reflections elevating the air.
Singing the day’s symphonies, dancing celestials the shadows in busk.
An inner task.
Particulars past.
Temporal to godspeed. Salt to spirit.
A scintillating urgency observations grasp.
Lifetimes in repetition cues muscle-memory for self-discipline’s harp.
The questions queue answers in beat-boxes.
A hastened learning curve twangs to attune the twine.
You in the vowel, my consonant delight. The heart beats a flight.
In another life of delivered letters. Forwards a meter to foot the syllables on your path.
All the earthly in ancient swoon, sunshine the moon and back in your smile.
Upon my lips, it stays awhile. Sating to the shine of your ways, for always.
Above feeling and sensation.
In the place of repose.
In the melding of form to the soul’s reform. The one love that pervades, the universe’s fabric breathes to its cascades.
I enter my Lord’s house, with my bridled’s reflection, the triumph that trumpets, A union of divine circumspect. A devotion inflects.
Amidst the joy, the singing vessel howls a well of tears, a sacred lake in reverence, a river of light flows its deliverance. Time halts its constant march, offering the Moon’s reprieve from eternal parch. The winds spread to nature’s enchant, bowing to ripen and attune the tree of repose to a yearning branch.
This veil of separation, the distance sanctifying in-seams.
The breath in reparation, the soul reaching its light to the finite’s in-between.
Transcendental until manifest, like the spirit dweller upon the threshold, gently waiting to adore. Cosmic the longings implore.
Had of the cup of knowledge, sought and outpoured to healing’s flight and all manners betwixt in mystical rites. The inner temple to house and hearth the temporal toast, divinities in crowns hath not the glory of true reflection, than the accord of the love’s heartened renown.
A celestial profound, to anchor my smile in your surround of eternal resound.
Patience beckons its coast, like the waves merely hover like these words like a pilgrim’s traces.
Lit, the inner lamp yet reaches, heightened to your harmonies.
Like dew in the morning’s apparent adorn.
Asunder this night of form, if you could hear in my heart,
You would me as the shine in your eyes.
And like the sky and its horizon, the sunrise to my surmise.
A coat of quotes and passing poetry
"
Why thus longing, thus forever sighing
For the far off, unattained, and dim,
While the beautiful, all round thee lying,
Offers up its low perpetual hymn?
Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching, All thy restless yearnings it would still; Leaf and flower and laden bee are preaching.
Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fill.
Poor indeed thou must be, if around thee
Thou no ray of light and joy canst throw,
If no silken cord of love hath bound thee.
To some little world through weal and woe;
If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten, — No fond voices answer to thine own;
If no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten
By daily sympathy and gentle tone.
Not by deeds that win the crowd's applauses, Not by works that gain thee world-renown,
Not by martyrdom or vaunted crosses, Canst thou win and wear the immortal crown.
Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely,
Every day a rich reward will give;
Thou wilt find, by hearty striving only,
And truly loving, thou canst truly live.
Dost thou revel in the rosy morning,
When all nature hails the Lord of light,
And his smile, the mountain-tops adorning,
Robes yon fragrant fields in radiance bright?
Other hands may grasp the field and forest,
Proud proprietors in pomp may shine;
But with fervent love if thou adorest, Thou art wealthier,—all the world is thine.
Yet if through earth's wide domains thou rovest,
Sighing that they are not thine alone.
Not those fair fields, but thyself thou lovest,
And their beauty and thy wealth are gone.
Nature wears the color of the spirit;
Sweetly to her worshipper she sings;
All the glow, the grace she doth inherit,
Round her trusting child she fondly flings.
"Why thus longing | Harriet Winslow Sewall