I wrote this nearly 30 years ago – before I owned either a computer or cell phone. Its length and language tell, perhaps, how much Tennyson I was reading at the time. Its truth, well you can decide for yourself.

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Snow floats so lightly to the ground

Akin to diamonds’ sparkle bright.

It’s quiet, oh so quiet now

As onward winds the gentle night.

 

 

And light breaks up the darkness which

Was soft and warm, a friend to man.

Rays setting forth with their own gift

Of life, a silent contribution.

 

Acknowledged by the sons of Day

The sun projects its sharpest beam

Of warmth, of tenderness, of love,

Of clarity of visions seen.

 

The townsmen underneath the sky

In tasks intently diligent,

Yet stop to help a neighbor

In Greater work; benevolence.

 

A Child is born within this scape.

Fair, thoughtful, willing now to learn

He grows in stature, virtue, intellect;

Seizing lessons, each in turn.

 

In play with friend he learns of sharing;

Give and take, each in its place.

Perhaps to give the better part,

And in so doing finds more grace.

 

His father, mother, brother, sister

Teach him well in their own way

Of kinship greater than their own

Extending to the sons of Day.

 

Receives instruction, he and others,

From a wisened teacher there.

He learns of more than dates and graphs;

Learns the love of learning more.

 

Forgiveness from within his church

A lesson difficult to grasp;

Its merit true, yet grieving, freeing

Learns the Child as hands are clasped.

 

How charity and chastity

Go hand in hand, a deeper troth.

Consistent, true, considerate;

Teacher, student of his love.

 

A noble statesman teaches him

Not of rank or high degree,

But of higher consequence;

True vision, gentle quality.

 

 

Throughout the planting and the harvest

Child observes truths of the soil.

Seed produces same in harvest;

Patience requisite of toil.

 

From life itself the Child acquires

Understanding of own self’s control,

Without the which all else abridges

‘Til nought is left of value’s toll.

 

Along his journey thus instructed,

Child grows thoughtful, kind and good;

Stopping oft to help his neighbor,

Conscious of his brotherhood.

 

Light nudges night away again.

Child tends his work from day to day.

Projecting still its gift of life

The clarifying, warming Ray.

 

Into his work there comes a box,

A talking box with soothing sound.

Pleased to have this company,

Bemused, the Child keeps it around.

 

Its music stirs, its commentary

Sometimes stern, others humorous,

Box becomes a life its own;

Intent in its own righteousness.

 

Once again to help his neighbor

Child hears the box from shop to shop

Goading him for senseless labor,

“Have you had your turn?”, cries the box.

 

Troubled by this indignation

Child replies, “It matters not

Whose turn is whose in brotherhood.”

Silent is the box.

 

Soothing music, words that please him

Once again calm Child’s soul.

“I would not tell you what to do,”

Replies the box, sans virtue’s toll.

 

“I am your friend.  Look!  How I love you!

I am here both night and day!

I would not keep your brother hurting;

It’s only you I try to save.”

 

Not a little troubled, he,

The child considers its behest;

Yet what to do with the box?

Endures the stimulating chest.

 

And somewhat with relief he finds

The Box is what it claims to be;

A friend in hard times and in ease,

Providing helpful levity.

 

Again the Box scoffs at the Child

“O, innocent, you stupid man!”

Not one around chaste remains;

Each takes his pleasure best as he can.”

 

“Look yonder!  Love is only

Temporal and nothing more.

Naïve you are.  You poor dear Child.

Hold you only to folklore.”

 

Begins the child to answer it,

Yet pauses, thoughts newly confused;

Maintains his silence now disturbed.

Box, the one who seems bemused.

 

Thus encounters compromise

Of virtue, once he deemed as right.

Uncertain of his thoughts, his deeds;

The source unknown of Child’s plight.

 

Box seizes opportunity

With powerful song and dance.

It breathes a word, alluring,

Tempting.  Whispers, shouts it.  “TOLERANCE.”

 

“Yes, tolerance is fitting, caring,”

Says the Child, “It fits the beam

Of the Sun so high above us.”

Things not always what they seem.

 

Light inches in across the darkness

Radiating softer light.

Squinting, Child ponders slowly

“Why gleams the sun so bright, so bright?”

 

Once again a neighbor stops him

In this contemplative state.

“I advise you true direction,

Brother, friend who’s lost your way.”

 

“O you who are so high and mighty!

Slave to your own foolish task!”

Box admonishes the Child

“And what of Tolerance!”

 

“A man can turn ways manifold,

One way equal to the other.

Care you not to tolerate

The wanderings of your friend, your brother!”

 

Stutters Child, “The ways unequal

In the way; some briars, cliffs.

Friend would repent his wayward journey

To help was my sole motive.”

 

“Yet, perhaps I was hasty

In my vision for my friend.

Not I, but he it is who chooses

Paths to take to journey’s end.”

 

“Admitted he that he was lost,

But by my charge, admonition

Perhaps I unwittingly

Detracted from a truer vision.”

 

Thusly courses conversation;

“Surely you will learn to know

Even seedlings planted early

Into something different grow.”

 

“Childhood’s lessons better left

To babes.  You are too great for these.

With societal correctness

More the masses you will please.”

 

Another day forgiveness asked

From one held in the child’s debt.

Box intercepted, whispers,

“Why is it for him you fret?”

 

“He has nothing done to help you

Nor to make your days seem bright

Pardon would the error prove;

Debt his due, of course is right.”

 

“But what of tolerance?”

Inquires the Child.  His heart protests.

“This is nought of tolerance,”

Assures the Box, “Now take your rest.”

 

“Sons of Day need not the Sun

To guide them, keep them safe and strong.

Tolerate cacophony!

You will grow to love the song.”

 

Light filters through the clouds below

Touching, warming Child at play.

“Damn the light!  It scorches me.

Await I ‘til it goes away!”

 

Offered now a high position

Child considers in this hour

“Take it!  Take it!” Box demands him

“This shall offer you much power!”

 

“What of quiet, gentle service?”

Momentarily stays Child’s reply.,

Voices he the words to please it

“None more deserving than I.”

 

Years of subtle twisting, turning

Child and Box trace hand to hand’

Lessons learned so long ago

No more distract from Box’s stand.

 

Virtue, lost in years of message

From the Box, forever gone.

“’Tis hard to see the way I travel.”

Child loathe admits.  And travels on.

 

Lessons taught by truer teachers

Tossed aside Child knows not whence

Liberated from their limits

In the name of Tolerance.

 

Enters he into the twilight

Recognizing nought of sunlight’s bend.

Night no friend, it offers strictly

Cold and darkness without end.

 

Quietly the child lies down

Task long forgotten, sighs

“I cannot help but wonder if . . .”

His words drift off as dead he lies.

 

Snow floats so lightly to the ground

Akin to diamonds’ sparkle bright.

It’s quiet, oh so quiet now

As onward winds the gentle night.

 

The Child in his coffin lies

Lost to Day, alike to dark.

Triumphantly, a voice rings clear

Now his casket stands the Box.

 

 

Poem and copyright by Connie Miller Pease; photos: pexels.com; pixabay