347 and 348

When finally fey death had come to me

and I surveyed the life that I had led,

I knew no picture from my memory,

and knew no word from anything I’d read.

I knew not how the foods I loved could taste,

nor any sense, nor any color, e’en.

All that my mind had ever known—a waste,

except one day, one thought that once had been.

A day when, bright were skies and, soft, the air,

and pleasant was the attitude of all;

and you were there, yes, you were there—right there—

and our eyes met, and, that, I can recall.

I’d long forgotten every memory,

but knew exactly how you looked at me.

~

The piping of this organ reaches far

beyond the chapel doors into the hall,

the lobby too, and here inside my car,

it sings to all whose ears can hear its call.

Would that the angel’s voices were as loud

as this, the testimony of the pipes.

But theirs are softer voices, so endowed

to speak to varied temperaments and types.

For better men than I have hated this—

—the chapel organ shattering the air.

If I need exultation, with what ease

do those who need it not, without it, fare?

Love all the volumes that will speak of God,

love those who, loud or soft, your Lord will laud.