Three-Fold Fires without Pain

And when the winds of June

And when the cornflowers bloom

And when, when earth meets sky

in vast array of glorious show,

the apple blossoms lie

across the fresh-strewn mow,

then the rains have passed

then the pain is cast

then my lying abed has met at last

it’s final fresh-strewn grave.

 

Upon the silent, still cement

the sun has cast her golden raiment,

and if my final gripping pain,

is washed and dried and gone like rain,

then truly, cruelly, I can claim,

my pain is really gone again.

 

But if on soaring wings I fly,

to meet the scattered, star-filled sky,

then pure upon the wind I call

with joyful, alleluia yells.

At last I’m free and free to last,

among seraph, angels and eternal choirs.

I forget already the bitter, biting past,

and rise to burn exultant in the three-fold fires.

 

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