Fair faces fold for me behind the Glen's golden gleam,
Childhood’s memory is like a sea of Autumn’s grass
Waving from afar faint hues of Summer’s green.
O to be young once more!
Handfuls of sweet grain for the house of store
Where memory is of lore
And the fruit of being is in the seeing things one has never seen before.
O to see this fair face again sun-kissed by the sun above the Glen.
Could I climb up on the limb
Of the tree which brought me to be?
Rattling branches, shaking leaves, my feet above the golden sea,
Could these clouds carry me away from aging’s trickery?
After all, who told me I could not sail as they whose wisps kiss the sun at mid-day?
I am a fool for thinking anything but
That the child, more than any other, knows the way
To be.
O clean hands, O pure heart wade in the golden sea!
Grass of the Valley of memory,
Learn to see
The corrupt adorned with their millstone jewelry do blaspheme;
They strip bare the lore which gives birth to all memory.
We were born to restore the hollow spots off in the yonder moor.
Remember O child, the untouched Lore.