First John Burns
by john clare
As hollow shells in our biers of aging
In paper shrouds we shall forever dwell
Images of a life before we fell
In one dimension flat between the pages
Some to King James volumes worn
In the bosom of the love of First John
Some to ye old Burns pages torn
There, him at Agincourt wha shone
A hundred years to quietly lie
The words in the image one becoming
Far hence the sound of tattered chapters turning
Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye;
Aye in the image clearly writ
Far faded in the long idle sit
His love perfected in Him alone
Long beyond ye ole image is gone.
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