LORD, on this paper white, <br />My soul would write <br />Tales that were heard of old <br />Of perilous things and bold; <br />Kings as young lions for pride; <br />Lost cities where they died <br />Last in the gate; the cry <br />That told some Eastern throng <br />A prophet was gone by; <br />The song of swords; the song <br />Of beautiful, fierce lords <br />Gone down among the swords; <br />The traffick and the breath <br />Of nations spilled in death; <br />The glory and the gleam <br />Of a whole age <br />Snared in a golden page,– <br />Such is my dream. <br /> <br />Yet thanks, if yet You give <br />The crumbs by which I live,– <br />Blown shreds of beauty, broken <br />Words half unspoken, <br />So faint, so faltering, <br />They may not truly show <br />The blue on a crow's wing, <br />The berry of a brier <br />Cupped in new snow <br />As though the snow lit fire, . . .<br /><br />Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dedication-42/
