He saw her shoulders, bare and shaking,
Cold beneath the weight of care;
He gave her all the warmth he had to spare
For what he left behind was all
That mattered in the end;
The sustenance of memory in a friend
It’s the service we remember:
How it was he touched the less and made it more,
How it was he dressed the sick, the lame, the sore
With matters of infringement
Not a subject for his many sharpened paints —
To those who need, the giving are their saints
The sunset of too short, too soon
Does not impinge the value of the light:
But I wish we could have held off
Night
Is this…about the sun? That was my very first thought when I read the first few sentences.
LikeLiked by 1 person
… hmm …
LikeLike