The mist in my face,
When snows begin, and the blast denote
I am nearing the place,
The power of night, the press of the storm,
The post of the foe;
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visable form,
Yet the strong man must go:
For the journey is done and the summit obtained,
And the barriers fall.
Tho' a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained,
The reward of it all.
I was ever a fighter, so - one fight more,
The best and the last!
I would hate that death bandage my eyes, and forebore,
And bade me creep past.
No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers
The hereos of old,
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears
Of pain, darkness and cold.
For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave,
The black minute's at end,
And the elements' rage, the friend-voices that rave,
Shall dwindle, shall blend,
Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain,
Then a light, then thy breast,
O thou soul of my soul! I clasp thee again,
And with God be the rest.
Yet she had talent, both artistic and poetic, she had genius known only to Mensa.
And she had a beautiful inner light.
Yet her light was almost always cast in shadows, hidden by illness in various darker forms.
Each of us had a glimpses of that light and were bedazzled by it,
And yet each of us has witnessed the dark veil that would once again decend.
The Lord, in taking her back into His arms, has now removed that veil forever,
And so today, we may remember my Mother in all her glorious light.
