What glory be, let it be hers;
   in stories told, may she well lead;
   at the end of days, may we the sunset see
   only in the corners of our eyes;

   when the wind blows, let it first cool her, then me;
   when the song sounds, forget me in a middle verse;
   for she is the joy that grows and any stream may feed,
   and hers be the flower I hope as greens to frame;

   there be systems here, of love
   as light too bright to see
   slowed and split by darkened glass
   colors plain-pain't walls and shadow:

   what glory I do see be hers
   which, as she departs, does never dim.