From Feast upon the Word (http://feastupontheword.org). Copyright, Feast upon the Word.
(a quaint, but curious) volume of forgotten lore
Athirst, I sought the flood,
I asked that dry dust might be mud
to make one see;
and as I asked, so water poured
from heaven's window, but not aboard
a box was I;
but through the mud I saw that crate,
with windows locked inside: my fate
was so to be;
and so now drowning, seeking dove,
my olive branch I upward shove
with waiting cry:
Thou bird who canst not lie!
Bring a share of bread to me!
Dry this flood now, lest I die!
Let this, my mud, be dust in thee!
Now as my plea on nothing rings,
I hear the sound of desperate wings
that hope for rest;
and through the mud I see, not white,
but black as raven hoves in sight
in search of hav'n;
no window let the creature pass,
but holds he in his beak a glass,
white stone, thrice blessed;
the rock alone betwixt us both
doth pass at first, but O, then quoth
he, quoth the rav'n:
Be it rare, or radiant, pav'n
way of gold: angels attest
thy new-found name is never (crav'n
though thou be) more than God compressed!
Thus weighed, let me press this drowning glass of wine to my fiery lips.
