I've seen him fifteen times, myself. Wish it was fifteen thousand.
Every Grain of Sand
In the time of my confession, in the hour of my deepest need
When the pool of tears beneath my feet flood every newborn seed
There's a dyin' voice within me reaching out somewhere, Toiling in the danger and in the morals of despair.
Don't have the inclination to look back on any mistake, Like Cain, I now behold this chain of events that I must break.
In the fury of the moment I can see the Master's hand In every leaf that trembles, in every grain of sand.
Oh, the flowers of indulgence and the weeds of yesteryear, Like criminals, they have choked the breath of conscience and good cheer.
The sun beat down upon the steps of time to light the way To ease the pain of idleness and the memory of decay.
I gaze into the doorway of temptation's angry flame And every time I pass that way I always hear my name. Then onward in my journey I come to understand That every hair is numbered like every grain of sand.
I have gone from rags to riches in the sorrow of the night In the violence of a summer's dream, in the chill of a wintry light,
In the bitter dance of loneliness fading into space, In the broken mirror of innocence on each forgotten face.
I hear the ancient footsteps like the motion of the sea Sometimes I turn, there's someone there, other times it's only me.
I am hanging in the balance of a perfect finished plan Like every sparrow falling, like every grain of sand.
Tell your mama not to worry 'cause
Yes, they're just my friends...
St. Agnes' Eve--Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;
The hare limp'd trembling through the frozen grass,
And silent was the flock in woolly fold:
Numb were the Beadsman's fingers, while he told
His rosary, and while his frosted breath,
Like pious incense from a censer old,
Seem'd taking flight for heaven, without a death,
Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith.
His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man;
Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees,
And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan,
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees:
The sculptur'd dead, on each side, seem to freeze,
Emprison'd in black, purgatorial rails:
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat'ries,
He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails
To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails.
. . . .
Out went the taper as she hurried in;
Its little smoke, in pallid moonshine, died:
She clos'd the door, she panted, all akin
To spirits of the air, and visions wide:
No uttered syllable, or, woe betide!
But to her heart, her heart was voluble,
Paining with eloquence her balmy side;
As though a tongueless nightingale should swell
Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell.
And for a strange take on Keats, read this Kipling short story. It may be a ghost story. I'm not entirely sure.
I will carry his colors for as long as I am able...
(now, check out the Lonesome River duet with Dr. Ralph Stanley...truly a thing of beauty and a pleasure to behold.)