I feel the stirring of the unprofitable years,
the weight of prophecy and ancient grief.
We talk, the words flash golden and then die;
the thin smoke curls, beyond the window's dark
A bat cheeps, faint, repeating, in the night.

Words are the symbols of a mind's defeat,
they shape the hollow air with transient life,
and trick and twist and make the spirit reel,
vanish like ember's fire, devour and leave
brave husks and echoes of lost majesties.

Candlelight, to those who know no other,
has every element of energy
and set in myriads on brave candelabra
will grace with splendor the bright halls of kings
and gleam and flash from every flickering mirror
          and in its single gleam
          a simple stalwart beam
can hold the shadows back and light a room
with faces, hands, and all the stuff of life
caught in the warmth of living candlelight.

Though man's invention should make obsolete
the tallow and the wick, the hanging molds,
and night be driven back by manmade moons,
this little flame, this day, will be sufficient,
will be enough to those who know no other
and light the deathbed and the low-hung cradle,
alike the face of friend, the face of lover.

At what instant does the summer change?
What subtle chemistry of air
and sunlight on the clean and windsmooth sand?
          The small birds at the water's edge -
          yesterday they were not there.

So suddenly the magic door is shut,
the trio suddenly is done,
the clasped hands inexplicably apart;
          however dear, however bright,
          the road we traveled on is gone.