He waits upon an empty bench-
the man who does not see.
He calls in toneless syllables-
the man who will not hear.
He shudders at the changing youth-
the man who cannot learn.
He leaves the fair before it begins-
the man who will not try.
What of these men who live yet die?
Shall they have a lamp?
I will be the kindler,
who in the forest fire
Shall draw the igniting breath that spreads
from man to man to man.
Love will grow within their souls,
a fierce and living flame.
I the eternal kindler know love
remains, remains, remains.
old poem
Anne's mediocre poetry 