Dies Irae Poem by Brett White

Veilèd in the quick embrace of warm clouds,
The moon shineth proudly and She astounds
The keenest skeptic of God's perfect Grace.
Symmetrically waning - Her pale face
Hath seen more than - combinèd - thou shalt know.
Trees, toss'd and defeated, once more shall grow,
Renewed and awakened from slumbering Death,
By the intoxicating cool Spring-time breath,
Which doth whisper so sweetly in thine ear
'Despair - I know thee not, only Hope here
is Home.' A most blessèd philosophy-
Along the Holiest lines of Diès Iràe.