the thing that always eludes us

Oh muse of verse, who dost grace this page,

And with your gift, my words dost engage,

Hark! Let me sing of a thing most rare,

An emotion that oft, men cannot bear.

It dost not burn with fervent flame,

Or overflow with a river's claim,

It cometh soft, like a summer's breeze,

And yet its might, all hearts dost please.

This rarest of gems, is a thing called peace,

A balm to soothe, a release from stress,

It dost not show itself to all,

But those who feel it, forever shall call.

For peace is a flame, that burneth slow,

A light that dost warm, and dost glow,

A treasure most precious, and hard to find,

A gift from the heavens, most pure and kind.

It dost not flit, or change its form,

But standeth firm, as a rock so strong,

And in its presence, one dost find,

Comfort, and hope, a peace of mind.

So let this poem, to the world be shown,

That peace is a thing, most rare and known,

For it dost live, in the heart of all,

And in its light, the future shall be drawn.