Thursday, November 6, 2014


 A solitary pilgrim stood,
His face turned toward the west,
Care worn lines and calloused hands
Unmasked his severe quest.

Straining an ear to listen
For a distant, faint sonance,
Resolute to hear a score
From an immemorial dance,

He stroked his chin and pondered
(With a philosophic bent)
How mire, sturggle, and toil
Can spendorously be rent

By the common grace allowed us,
So a symphony breaks in
To calm a weary pilgrim
Through the world's cacophonous din.

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