The Shrine

by Hermann Miller

I wandered from the land of my design
To seek some new abode for my delight;
The land I’d left lay shrouded in the night,
And gated, lest perchance it might be mine.
Then came I, sudden, to a low-lit shrine
Where once I’d paused and prayed by censer light
For my desire. And swift came to my sight
All that I’d lost; a bitter grief to twine
Each deed or love I’d ventured, and to bare
My dreams, long buried, vaulted, and forgot.
I knelt once more by that pale light, to mourn
My young heart’s fire, and bid me to beware.
“Now,” said my mind, “I’ll heed these words that warn,
And let it die.” Yet said I, “Warn me not.”


Though he is also learning to love the present, Hermann Miller loves the past, where pain bites less and joy is safe.


Photography by Kenneth Godoy

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