Isadora Quagmire

To love is not for praise or earthly fame,
It asks no monument, no song, no verse,
But pours itself, a sacrificial flame,
A silent gift, to heal a world's deep curse.
...

Friendship is a precious art,
A steady beat within the heart.
It's not just presence, near or far,
But knowing who you truly are.
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There are angels in this mortal veil.
Gems glittering in this world's grey shale.
Their lights shine out in this dark land,
Like a lighthouse's sparkle upon the sands.
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A tiny spark in darkness, faint and frail,
Can shift the future's unrelenting tide.
Though shadows lengthen, and dark forces wail,
A single deed can turn where fates preside.
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The long sore day now gently fades,
The cool river calls, as evening shades.
With family, I splash and play,
Washing the world's fatigue away.
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Should shadows fall upon your way,
Or sorrow cloud your light and day,
My hand is grasping, forever near,
To expel every doubt and fear.
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Upon a tender night fair,
Beneath the moon's soft and silver glare,
I made a promise to which Ill hold true,
To guard and cherish you.
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Fear no living man,
but trust in God, don't dismay.
Take courage, know he can,
guide you in life's frightful fray.
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Last night my little sister asked me if dreams came true,
it took me some time to think of what I perceived.
But when I decided what indeed I knew,
I gave her the answer which I truly believe.
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The sky opened up, a gentle sigh,
And oh, the rain began to fly!
A hush descends, a world renewed,
My heart with gratitude imbued.
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Be still, my soul! the Lord is on your side;
Bear patiently the cross of grief or pain;
Leave to your God to order and provide;
In ev'ry change he faithful will remain.
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In dreams of moonlit serenity, she appears,
Graceful and beautiful, a vision so dear,
With dark hair cascading like midnight's whisper,
Her presence, a symphony, her love so clear.
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When the mortal veil is lifted,
and the soul ascends on high,
To the gates of Heaven, swiftly,
where in eternal life no man may die.
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My dearest brother, whose mind, a noble hall,
Is richly furnished with wisdom's ancient lore,
In classic tongues you rise above them all,
A courtly grace I've never seen in anyone before.
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The tiny sparrow, frail and small,
No granary does it command,
Yet hears the Father's loving call,
And feeds daily from His hand.
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The Little Folk flit from sight, from where the sunlight gleams
On forest paths, too open to the day,
To secret vales, like half-remembered dreams,
Where ancient oak and tangled ivy sway.
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Where now is that gleaming white flower?
The White Rose gleaming on high,
Where is that secure tower?
Why has it's glow left the world's dark sky?
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My dear parents, my heart still seeks you so,
Their place is empty, the silence weighs low.
I miss their voices, their laughter, their lessons,
In my memory, their songs still echo.
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My dear older sister's mind,
is truly one-of-a-kind,
It computes with speed,
for pencil and paper she has no need.
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You are so quiet and still,
your face is whitely pale,
you look so sickly and ill,
I wish you were whole and hale.
...