Another Poetry

I The lyric poet ponders: There is another poetry in which the clash of arms stands for a life of sacrifice and higher purpose. How that clamor excites a sedentary soul like mine! Men in those poems give names to their swords, but never call a slave by name. They scoff at lesser men whose delight is peace, restlessly enduring the hours they cannot pursue glory. And time is their greatest enemy: it has planned the perfect ambush of their hopes. They smash each other's heads in tournaments to silence the laughter of time. They limp from their fields of endeavor, angry at their bodies which need rest and gentle nursing. II The epic poet remembers: There is another poetry I learned under Master Anselm's gentle sway, and then abandoned. He taught me the names of flowers and streams, made me touch rough oak and soft poplar, showed me how dawnlight and dusk differ. He guided my listening to larks and orioles and to the sweet cadence of a young woman's voice. As he lay dying, completely composed, he whispered, 'All these things are yours only if you share them with people starved for beauty. Never hoard beauty as your own. Do not fear the passage of time, for it always brings new gifts and laughs when we are limp, overwhelmed with wonder.'