You’ve got Jonathan Edwards Eyes.

The ones he had when his sight

was blinded by the light,

before his soul was plunged

into eternal darkness.

 

Some men are at peace not to have in their head

a grandiose plan,

or believe, we’re not dead when we’re

dead;

 

that our wits will stay sharp,

hard work’s not a cage,

that love conquers all

and the jaw won’t slacken,

the mood won’t darken,

the lungs won’t blacken

with age.

 

It is human to sing the pessimist’s song

when world-wonder has palled with each calendar turn

when the saucer-eyed grin of the blind optimist

begs us;

 

join in

concur

belong.