Beneath the awful weight of stars,
the vault of heaven groans and splits
with breaks of light that spill in fits
to trembling clay. The sky has scars.
What power forms whole what soon it mars?
The moon's bright face admits each fault;
suns fade and fall in time's assault.
What chance then, heart, for bodies, ours,
against a force whole worlds devours-- Except to yield. Pray it not halt,
that bears the broken to greater exalt.

04/08/2008

Posted on 04/08/2008
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