go tell the wind

“Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and
 often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.”
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

go tell the wind blow gently on my sorrow,
that i may hope retain to face tomorrow;
compass me not with unrelenting anger,
where i'm already chased by pregnant danger.

go tell the tears to wait a little longer,
till i have learnt to be a little stronger;
submerge me not in spate, o mighty river,
nor in your spite make me a short-lived liver.

entreat my heart to pound a bit more gently,
that passions rife may not, inadvertently,
demolish me by ricocheted delusion
that seeks to vex my vigour with confusion.

go tell the grave that i must keep on breathing,
because the faith that keeps my heart believing
is weaned not yet from infantile meander,
with miles to go ere in deep sleep i slumber.

go tell the world i yield my love's good pleasure,
that it may increment in lavish measure
to bless the broken and the poor in spirit,
if only they may see God's Wisdom in it.

© Copyright 2024 March 15
by Clyve A. Bowen♫