#academia - Hello Poetry

As long as those old heavy bells ring out, their thunderous clang announcing passing hours, and bright leaves litter red brick alleyways, soon crunched beneath the clean white soles of autumn’s brand-new shoes, And as long as lofty tales of eons past are still devoured bright-eyed in shade supplied by lofty boughs From pages frail and yellowing, the words conveyed To fledgeling scholars not yet worn around the edges, their margins yet unwritten-in and matter unacquainted with decay. As long as they still sit regaled by ships and sails and wars and gold and times that made men heroes, And as long as hoods and veils– each in itself a martyr’s crown– adorn the heads of those who come to lay their lives upon that same green limestone floor– where you first taught me strange new words which flow today as easily as water poured: as if they were my own. where I first tasted, **** and sweet, the Life Laid Down which lives in me. (That night, I came alive and green and new before your weeping eyes.) And though, like colored leaves that line the paths I used to walk with you, we humans change– Wild purple and bright orange into Black and White– indeed we change, and seem to scatter, too. (The life cycle of dragonflies is short.) But as long as leaves still fall upon that path And bells still ring while babies rest Against their mothers’ hips And children laugh and run– And grow, and lose themselves beneath the trees beguiled by tales of heroes past and then, with stroke of pen, degree conferred, they, all at once, disperse; embark; become the heroes yet unsung– And as long as soft white buds still dare to bloom in spring While souls unfurl with alleluias bright As long as prayers– your prayers– still rise like smoke, like birds, like hope up to the vaulted blue and still Beyond, Then this I promise you: I will come home again.

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Nov 7, 2025

Nov 7, 2025 at 7:01 AM UTC

annakatethegreat

homecoming

As long as those old heavy bells ring out, their thunderous clang announcing passing hours, and bright leaves litter red brick alleyways, soon crunched beneath the clean white soles of autumn’s brand-new shoes, And as long as lofty tales of eons past are still devoured bright-eyed in shade supplied by lofty boughs From pages frail and yellowing, the words conveyed To fledgeling scholars not yet worn around the edges, their margins yet unwritten-in and matter unacquainted with decay. As long as they still sit regaled by ships and sails and wars and gold and times that made men heroes, And as long as hoods and veils– each in itself a martyr’s crown– adorn the heads of those who come to lay their lives upon that same green limestone floor– where you first taught me strange new words which flow today as easily as water poured: as if they were my own. where I first tasted, **** and sweet, the Life Laid Down which lives in me. (That night, I came alive and green and new before your weeping eyes.) And though, like colored leaves that line the paths I used to walk with you, we humans change– Wild purple and bright orange into Black and White– indeed we change, and seem to scatter, too. (The life cycle of dragonflies is short.) But as long as leaves still fall upon that path And bells still ring while babies rest Against their mothers’ hips And children laugh and run– And grow, and lose themselves beneath the trees beguiled by tales of heroes past and then, with stroke of pen, degree conferred, they, all at once, disperse; embark; become the heroes yet unsung– And as long as soft white buds still dare to bloom in spring While souls unfurl with alleluias bright As long as prayers– your prayers– still rise like smoke, like birds, like hope up to the vaulted blue and still Beyond, Then this I promise you: I will come home again.