A stranger strode across the breathless air; Yet, stranger is he not among all men: For time, nor space, nor prayer, determine when, (Outwitting all), this phantom takes his flair. So stealthily . . . with practiced art and care. . . . So finally! he casts the die, and then Adroitly, with imperishable pen, Indites the scroll . . . and sorrowed hearts despair. O death, your ego is transparent sham! As Acolyte you snuffed her candle's light; Your boasted kingship died when by that deed Eternal life began for her soul's calm. Now time, nor space, nor prayer curtail the flight Of golden verse she penned . . . and legacied. |