For my grandmother.
Nor day of new-come birth today, nor yet
Of birth’s remembrance only, but a fête,
A toasting of a life that with the year
Renews its journey by the faithful ear
Toward the shining streets of heav’nly gold,
Whose Spirit’s eldest fruits never grow old,
Is this where we are gathered. In that spring
Æternal is the hope which long our King
Has promised those who now hold fast to him:
By faith their spirit never will grow dim.
The fire that burns within the holy breast
Will make an orient out of the west.