504 and 505

There was a library this Tuesday last

with little plastic clovers on the wall.

Green three-leaf clovers twinkled as you passed

them by, the lights fluorescent lit them all.

A boy enjoyed the sight of them. His bro-

-ther thought they were a very silly thing.

The librarian smiled, and a mo-

-ther hoped they might, more joy, her children, bring.

But I—I loved it all. Even the one

who thought these decorations more a bore.

I thought so too, once, when my teens begun;

but even that memory I adore.

Observing the attempt at sparking joy.

Who liked it most: me, or th’intended boy?

~~~

O Giant, with your voice of rasping stone,

whose words any good hero should have known,

speak on until the end, for it is not

your end—merely one story you have wrought.

Your voice shall echo in more pages yet,

and much more awe and trembling beget.

The ears that never heard you here will soon

be filled with the great echoes of your tune.

This story, this one, where you speak to none,

is building legend for one yet unwon.

So build it well, and loud shall be the lore

of this: the voice that shook pale heaven’s floor.

Its angels listen, if mortals do not.

There, lives and glories endless you have got.