Sitting in Michael's Lap
This empty well, this void and vacant hole,
Holds nothing more of hoping or of strife,
Except the fading whispers of a soul
Which haunts the crypt with memories of life.
Enfeebled now the words, where once they sang
Like fledgeling hawks, defiant of the sky;
Launched bold into the blue, while heavens rang
In echoes of that wild, triumphant cry.
So dies the dream, in silence doubly loud --
Entombed before the shade could steal the breath --
Made prisoner 'til he who smooths the shroud
Puts forth his hand to grant the boon of death.
This well, where once the waters issued sweet,
Yearns only now for emptiness complete.
Full fathom five thy father lies,
Of his bones are coral made,
Those are pearls that were his eyes;
Nothing of him that doth fade
But doth suffer a sea-change
Into something rich and strange...
--William Shakespeare, from The Tempest