There once was a poet from Britain
On whose reading one day did I sit in
When the throng said, "Arcane"
He was heard to explain
"It's not for you that it's written"

I built a house high on a hill
Before I'd held a nail
I crossed an ocean on a sloop
Before I learned to sail
I took to wing among the clouds
Not knowing how to fly
I fell in love at autumn's call
Not knowing how to cry

The Autumn of life
Like the season
May be clad in beauty
But blessedly unlike the season,
It holds and can long last
Winter then steals in
but unwanted
Overstaying its use
Save the first blanket of snow
Prayers are for it fleeting

Comes warmth and light to sire your name
With blue and orange and red
Comes stalwart as a white hot flame
Where the wicked dare not tread

A loving Titan did then conspire
Not giving second thought
Defied a God and gave us fire
Though misery was his lot

Much is written and at great length
Of where true beauty lies
It's in the wisdom and the strength
That dance in Julia's eyes

Between the lines and faded pages
I tried to read blurred words
Of all the now forgotten sages
And for what their portent girds

A chapter for the innocent
And the simply reasoned pact
Written ironclad as their covenant
Sold as 'it is written' fact

A long passage spoke of virtue
As if it's for the choosing
A uniformly clannish stew
For which there's no refusing

A word of love made up a phrase
That warmed my lonely heart
I'll carry it for all my days
As an imperfect art

A sentence then did run on
It seemed to not abate
A web that it was spun on
Was made from wanton hate

The epilogue was too unclear
For resolve did I then *****
If just to ease my troubled fear
To find a word of hope

There falls a simple drop of rain
Upon a lime green fern
A blessed link of ancient chain
That takes its rightful turn

A precious breath of earnest air
That fills a grateful breast
Needn't say a wishful prayer
To hold it to its quest

The heavens steeped in fickle blue
Hold up a captive Sun
The dawn so old but ever new
A canvas left undone