Wednesday, October 26, 2011


There is a magic in the rising moon,
Across the sea the siren voices call,
The mountains pull the wand'rer from his room,
And forests make no lord so fit a hall.
Beneath clear skies we huddle round the flame,
Laughing until our hands and souls are warm.
New faces fast become our ancient names
Known to us all before the world was born.
This is my blessing and my greatest fear:
To see it all and never stop for rest.
I think and new frontiers 'fore me appear,
And pathways spread beyond each undimmed crest,
Until I feel my heart will burst its bonds
With all the possibilities and songs.

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