Sitting in Michael's Lap
I walk in quiet contemplation, lone but for the sound
Of steps that whisper trepidation on uncertain ground –
The path they tread is lush and sweet, such unfamiliar scene –
How shall I tempt these graveled feet to trust the tender green?
Might these, so cautiously attired in calloused cloth of doubt,
Become by breath of hope inspired to dare a step without
Such bitter finery as this? Does habit so compel
The way that it should turn from bliss to carve a course in Hell?
By Fate's malignance cruelly shod, and made to suffer long,
But must the steps unending plod their way to sorrow's song?
Might not a brighter ballad steal the breath from torment's horn,
And with resounding voice reveal a rapture newly-born?
What joy by jeweled blooms assured, that hail the gentle morn!
And yet, a curse so long endured is not so soon forsworn --
While logic's voice would surely deem salvation here revealed,
These leery feet can only dream the dance in flowered field.
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