Semantron

There is a certain rhythm formed by rhyme

There is a certain rhythm formed by rhyme

And meter found within few fateful souls,

That lends lofting their spirits high to chime

With winter’s wind and summer’s whippoorwills,

Listing and longing for the northern hills,

Further yet still and over mountains, black,

To one white mountain whence four river spills

Spring from one well, descend, the worldly wreck

Blessed by the draught, and bound on brier trek,

These souls ascend the stairs of Idavol,

Finding the gate, beyond which answers beck

Unbarred, the burning brand sheathed for them all.

Enter and quail within the forest hall

Flanking two trees bowing to form the throne,

Of One who in falling undid the Fall,

His is the glory and the song alone!



An instant passes and the church bells call.

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