|Epiphanies come and go; what remains
Plays upon the harp strings of the heart,
In which an inborn harmony sustains
Passion, pleasure, patience, purpose, art.
How might beatitude come every day,
A bit of the bright ecstasy of Heaven?
None need do more than tarry by the way,
Yielding to the grace that all are given.
Copyright by Nicholas Gordon. Free for personal or non-commercial use.