If beauty dwells inside the mortal heart
and soul, what dark impediment can be
so strong that we’d forget, incessantly,
to let it rule and be the greater part?
Have bitterness and poverty of care
for good and kindly things the weight and sway
to force the love of beauty out, away,
and leave a wound of emptiness in there?
What fault in us could any cause invent
to trade our greatest gift for grief or hate—
can joy revive, or is it left too late
that we grow wiser, love, create—relent?
Let us let go of emptiness, grow whole