March 15, 2018

THE LOOKOUT

The old tin rooster on the shed
waits patiently to sing its song.
The trees are quiet, wind is dead.
Soon dawn will break. It won’t be long.

The air is calm, the sky is red,
but perched up high for all to see
without a wink of sleep our friend
maintains his outpost rigidly.

A breeze begins to cross the plain.
It starts up gently, then it grows.
The stoic, weathered weathervane
without a warning stirs and crows.
And how can man die better
Than facing fearful odds,
For the ashes of his fathers,
And the temples of his gods?

- The Lays of Ancient Rome

✤ ✤ ✤ ✤ ✤

I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.

- Lord Alfred Tennyson, In Memoriam