Throwing stones at the stars
The Child is father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.
Time does not diminish grief
As it is said to do, in popular belief,
It grinds on slow, tearing into dreams,
Destroying all that which merely
Appears or seems.
It is born again, transmuted
Into tinctures of love.
It inhabits the mind, fills the heart
with all that is passing, strange.
The well-beloved lives on
In memory reminiscence,
Born again in glances, gleams.
Through the ages.
A child's terrors
Cured by her very presence
Her love for all that a child sees:
Floating like butterflies,
Buzzing like bees.