If in that Syrian garden, ages slain,
You sleep, and know not you are dead in vain,
Nor even in dreams behold how dark and bright
Ascends in smoke and fire by day and night
The hate you died to quench and could but fan,
Sleep well and see no morning, son of man.
But if, the grave rent and the stone rolled by,
At the right hand of majesty on high
You sit, and sitting so remember yet
Your tears, your agony and bloody sweat,
Your cross and passion and the life you gave,
Bow hither out of heaven and see and save.
Weathers and seasons were part of the living world, and the movement between them was the world's breathing and showed that it was alive and in good health. Only when the rhythm became erratic, when the world drew its breath in great spasms, did they become afraid."C.R.Milne pic.twitter.com/r2AhQjKUEd
— A.A.Milne (@A_AMilne) April 13, 2021