I am the blade that is swung by your hand, Slicing a rainbow’s arc, I am the clapper, but you are the bell, Tolling the gathering dark. If you are the singer, then I am the song, A threnody, requiem, dirge. You’ve made me the answer for all the world’s need, Humanity’s undying urge. —“Threnody,” from the collected works of H.S. Socrates
