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I slept, but my heart was awake.

hark! my beloved is knocking.

"Open to me, my sister, my love,

my dove, my perfect one;

for my head is wet with dew,

my locks with the drops of the night."

I had put off my garment,

how I put it on?

I had bathed my feet,

how could I soil them?

My beloved put his hand to the latch,

and my heart was thrilled within me.

I arose to open to my beloved,

and my hands dripped with myrrh,

my finger with liquid myrrh,

upon the handles of the bolt..."

--Song of Solomon Ch.5

CLOUDS

by: Rupert Brooke (1887-1915)... the blue night the unending columns press In noiseless tumult, break and wave and flow,

Now tread the far South, or lift rounds of snow Up to the white moon's hidden loveliness.

Some pause in their grave wandering comradeless, And turn with profound gesture vague and slow,

As who would pray good for the world, but know Their benediction empty as they bless

They say that the Dead die not, but remain Near to the rich heirs of their grief and mirth.

I think they ride the calm mid-heaven, as these, In wise majestic melancholy train,

And watch the moon, and the still-raging seas, And men, coming and going on the earth.