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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