Poem: The Noble Soul of Man

From the time he came into this world,
His fair skin wet with the milk of innocence morning dew
Though he could not yet dream of far off lands,
His traveled father knew

That though his eyes were warm and wet as spring perfume,
Life's crashing waves would wash him bare,
And it's long travailing weight would trade for him aching sorrow
For his once carefree care

It's ebbing tide would draw away
Every noble seeming thought
Until it's ceaseless churn
Would make of his once great dreams naught

But kindness filled his father's eyes
With hope he'd not forgot
That though a candle's fickle flame, in the slightest breeze does quiver
And the budding plumb likewise, in pouring rain does shiver

The font of every soul's lost longing faith,
It does still pour, like in times of old
Down like a mighty river

And in it's sweet and tireless grace can be laid
The aching body of a wounded soldier, tired
Or even a thief or beggar with debts still yet unpaid

For it's eye searches not of men,
As the world accounts their glory
It is neither close unto the rich,
Nor from the poor, far apart
Nay, for it searches out alone
For only a true and noble heart

So as he sat and watched his son
And held the hand of his sleeping wife
He knew that while his works were not so great
He not yet laid to close his life

There still is time; he'd seize the day!
And for his son, withhold not one
Until in sun-drenched fields he lay
"Not this life! I shall not give unto the devil's pallor gray!"

He clasped him tight against his chest
And he held his little hand

And as he looked with eyes of wonder,
He hoped that he would one day understand -
That within his tiny beating heart,
Lies the noble soul of man.