Bright beams the Lily on the sun-glazed mount,
shining as a beacon to the long lost.
For long & grueling years of endless count,
through golden plains & valley's deep in frost
has he, in brimming expectation, sought
that blessed fruit of life & dreams whose rays
compact in splendor & deep in heaven wrought
brings clarity and peace to dreary days.
More than dreary have his gilded hours seemed,
and one morsel would ressurect each small,
glorious second to eternal streams
of Frey's tears that dance in strong halls.
His posture falls, for that was not his prize
But a flower, tender in his tired eyes.