Beside A Stream

I lived with pride; very high, Her house rose on a mountain's side. I watched the stars roll through the sky, I read the scroll of Time flung wide. But in that house, austere and bare, there was no laughter shared. No children played to lighten our cares. The House was high, but love did not live there. I lived with Love; who resided in a quiet place beside a stream. She warmed my cold hands in her breast, She wove around my sleep a dream. Kindness was the bread she gave, My weary broken soul it saved. Then came one with face divine Who softly came, when day was spent, And turned our water into wine, And taught us how to make our life a sacrament. WILLIAM J. DAWSON