When we die,
I shall no longer have the pleasure of looking in your eye
As your eye looks back at me.
Could God take this away, this so admirable, so lovely?
When this goes,
I shall no longer have the pleasure of looking at the rose
As the rose looks back at me.
Could God take this away, this so admirable, so lovely?
When this flies,
I shall no longer have the pleasure of seeing the size
Of this compared to that in all I see.
Could God take this away, this so admirable, so lovely?
When this fades,
I shall no longer have the pleasure of writing this down
Before life seizes me and I drown
In sunlit, shadowy glades
With music, where sensation wears the crown.
