These are the things I know: rhythm and rhyme,
Tension and timing in the tales I tell,
Prediction, pattern, drama and design,
The sway of song; these things I know full well.
And I know how to use them when I must,
And when, of more importance than the how;
And yet what is this quintessence of dust
Against the pain I see before me now?
What use my finest music and refrain?
What use, in such a pass, the poet's art?
My heart would see thee healed of every pain;
Would God I had the skill to match my heart.
Then like a sword against the falling snow,
Against this grief I might wield what I know.