Out of this questioning, eventual truth;
Out of this doubt, faith rooted in the rock;
Out of these impotent loins men shall come forth;
Out of this troubled sleep the world awake.
After we querulous ghosts are laid, shall rise
Men drunk with life, full-bodied and full-souled.
Death shall be then the fugue’s triumphant close,
And Love the trembling turbine of the world.
After; not for us. We have no life;
Only Lethean vague despairs that crush
Our strengthless spirits; our faith a confident brook
Dried into mud-holes; man a windblown chaff.
Death is the butt-end stubbed to perfunctory ash,
And Love a wretched scuffling in the dark.

Richard’s choice

Poems of the Spirit