You let me have what I am.
. . . Though I speak with the tongues
of men and angels . . .
As we held up the soft Irish moon
. . . Without love a clanging cymbal.
Sweet songbird, rain angel,
White wind kin, willing to be
. . . Even with the gift of prophecy
and have not love I am nothing…
While a whisper from another shore,
An Aeolian ode hums
Across the wishing waves −
. . . Rejoiceth in truth, love is kind…
Most precious treasure
. . . For now we see through a glass darkly
But then face to face . . .
Shall I know
Even as also I am known.
—Gerard J. Cunningham