Western wind, when will thou blow,
The small rain down can rain?
LO, praise of the prowess of people-kings
of spear-armed Danes, in days long sped,
we have heard, and what honor the athelings
My life is but a weaving, between my God and me,
I do not choose the colors, He worketh steadily.
Ofttimes he weaveth sorrow, and I in foolish pride
Forget He sees the upper, and I the underside.
Once upon a time in the land of Hushabye round about the wondrous days of yore. They came across a sort of box. Bound up with chains and locked with locks and labeled kindly do not touch, it's war.
A decree was issued round about all with a flourish and a shore and gayly colored mascot tripping lightly on before, don't fiddle with this deadly box or break it's chains or pick it's locks, and please don't ever play about with war.
This poem was written by a terminally
ill young girl in a New York Hospital.
It was sent by a doctor -