Wednesday, 20 June 2012
By Sydney Halet
Grieve not, oh thou waking world,
Passing here, where I lay dreaming
In my deep, soft-scented bower,
Filled with all the joyous scheming
That occupies man’s every hour.
Stop to ponder what I am,
That which in each dream can live,
A small, golden, glowing spot,
Sleeping...waiting but to give
The spark that hopeless man forgot.
So, grieve not, thou waking world,
Not seeing where I am fast asleep,
Waiting for you to awaken me
From my slumber calm and deep
To bring my golden light to thee.
[INVITATION: All elders, 50 and older, are welcome to submit stories for this blog. They can be fiction, non-fiction, poetry, memoir, etc. Please read instructions for submitting.]