XCVII: For L, and XCVIII: The Smallest Song

“You mean to say it never comes again?

The ache of heart, the scorch of every song?

that crucible that sears the soul, and then

replaces every good with every wrong?”

I’d died. And here I was before my Lord,

who promised me that all my pain was passed.

I’d nevermore be caught up sad, or bored,

or heavyhearted, by life’s joys harassed.

What scared me most was ho…