Writers
| That she or he who hopes to climb The vaulted ivy-covered walls Must needs believe what holds the heights Surpasses that which plods and crawls. There's naught in Life that's proven gold Without we several thresholds cross. The first is to divine the means Of separating gilt from dross. The second proves much harder still For some who look but cannot see The difference 'tween a selfish screed And sometimes-cold Reality. There's nothing bought that isn't sold There's nothing gained that isn't won There's nothing learned without a cost There's more to sky than Moon and Sun. There's all the stars that fall between Like snowflakes made of burning light. They sing us, "Ex Astris, Scienta. Now, morituri, rise and fight." And that's the third and hardest gate To cross; to know in heart and bone We're gladiators, one and all. The arena is our only home. Copyright © 2008 Geoffrey Thorne |
posted by Winterman at 12:04
Lovely and moving, as always.
Happy Bday, G.