You said that all men sleep but few men dream,
And earth was just a hand for me to shake;
Betwixt mine eyes thou wove unseen with seam,
And in this made far more than thou didst make.
The tree once glutton hath become bereft,
The roots once soaked in piety hath dried;
Alas, I wonder right, yet wander left,
Father, how can I live when thou hast died?
I’ll wait for twenty five of yonder day,
I’ll wait not for the promised blissful night;
The stars ignite when darkness maketh fray
And destiny beckons when it doth blight.
To him I owe the thought of heart and soul,
To him I owe on earth what be my role.

— Sheamonspeare