Our little hour,—how soon it dies:
How short a time to tell our beads,
To chant our feeble Litanies,
To think sweet thoughts, to do good deeds.
The altar lights grow pale and dim,
The bells hang silent in the tower—
So passes with the dying hymn
Our little hour.
Leslie Coulson
Traveling away to breathe in different place. Only two week's. Since you said goodbye.
Each morning arrives with bird song.
Cold chills, need for warm drink, echos of previous day. Each day ends sending us on journey with some rest. Then again like friend little early morning noise.
Home full of memories, this place called home is full of happy memories.
So much done, grateful for all the years, all laughter. Found Poem Above looking at John Betejaman poems in station. One little hour, one week... one two week period.Its time passing me by.
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