The beauties of this world do fly,
But in reality, in truth,
They all but die

Temporal matters feigning sweet,
Harpies, vipers, playing neat,
They wear the Seraph's golden crown,
But it's hollowed, gilded, corroded brown,

Elegant skin but empty eyes,
So full of those deceitful lies,
Dichotomy, carnal and certainly numb,
Embodiments of their Master's sum

But angels true, and angles white,
Can however, be found in light,
Not as fine as harpies,
Nor so sensually shrill,
But better, deeper, more beautiful still,

Affinities for affection, but shy of sin
Soft and gentle, not spiritually thin,
They lean on your shoulder,
Quiet and warm,
But seek nothing more,
Than the innocent morn,

And they claspeth your hand,
Genial and mild,
She might be your age,
But inside she's a child,

Rests on you for comfort,
Good natured and whole,
She seeks not thy body,
But thine hallowed soul,

She takes it in hand,
And holds it still,
Cherished and sheltered,
She's set on a hill,

Why, you do ask, would I seek something small?
Not glamorous, not erotic,
Not that which seems tall?

I'll tell you my friends,
My misguided joes,
There's wonder in life,
Beyond Earthly throws.

That but the journey to there,
That celestial place,
Is one of grave hurdles,
With hardships it's laced,

'Tis pilgrimage long,
'Tis pilgrimage hard,
But with such a companion,
I shall not be marred.