Poem of the Week XC

Angel's Song

C. S. Lewis

I know not, I,

What the men together say,

How lovers, lovers die

And youth passes away.

Cannot understand

Love that moral bears

To native, native land,

All land are theirs;

Why at grave they grieve

For one voice and face,

And not, and not receive

Another in its place.

I above the cone

Of the circling night

Flying, never have know

Less or greater light.

Sorrow it is they call

This cup whence my lip

(Woe's me!) never in all

My endless days can sip.