I think continually of those who were truly great
Who, from the womb, remembered the soul's history
Through corridors of light where the hours are suns, endless and
Whose lovely ambition was that their lips, still touched with fire,
Should tell of the spirit clothed head to foot in song.
And who hoarded from the spring branches
Falling across their bodies like blossoms.
What is precious is never to forget
The delight of the blood drawn from ancient springs
Breaking through rocks in worlds before our earth;
Never to deny its pleasure in the simple morning light,
Nor its grave evening demand for love;
Never to allow gradually the traffic to smother
With noise and fog the flowering of our spirit.
Near the snow, near the sun, in the highest fields
See how these names are feted by the waving grass,
And by the streamers of white cloud,
And whispers of wind in the listening sky;
The names of those who in their lives fought for life,
Who were at their hearts the fire's center.
Born of the sun, they traveled a short while towards the sun,
And left the vivid air signed with their honor.
By Stephen Spendor (1909-1995)