Of This...

If I should dare to wander where the feet of angels fear to treadAnd yield to worlds that want unfurls with abandon inside my headThen, linger where fools stand and stare at faded font of yesterdayAh! I might miss the bloom of this before its petals drift away If I with skilled desire should build a bridge that only thought can crossAnd boldly woo a rendezvous with what will never be or wasThen vainly pause a bit because pleasure and pain must have its danceAh! I might miss the thrill of this, while lost in Fantasy’s romance If I should long for some lost song because of how it made me feelAh! I might miss the hymn of This, where original anthems pealTo interweave with what I grieve bequeathed at birth to dusk-wreathed deathTo softly kiss the joy of This as it unravels breath by breath If I should scorn the brimming morn while hungering for what is notAnd feast my eyes upon a prize contrived by idle hands of thoughtAh! I might waste the pleasing taste of sweet, sweet berries on my spoonAnd I might miss the bliss of This; a glorious summer afternoon © Janet Martin