And your pilgrim soul, this sorrowful heart,
this Grace amid thorns, this mist on the air,
I hold in my soul, I murmur as prayer,
I chant as my song, I paint as my art.
Because our Love suffers no hateful shame
and our Beauty steals into every space,
for as our Grace asks, so I displace
my fear of the dark, with a steady flame.
* “When You Are Old” by W.B. Yeats