Now a girlish form, robed in white as her spirit, presses close; modest, yet resolute, eyes fixed on her purpose. She reaches up towards me a wreath of rare flowers, close-braided, fit for viking's armring, or victor's crown. How could I take it? Sword at the "carry" and left hand tasked, trying to curb my excited horse, stirred by vastness, the tumult, the splendor of the scene. He had been thrice shot down under me; he had seen the great surrender. But this unaccustomed vision -- he had never seen a woman coming so near before -- moved him strangely. Was this the soft death-angel -- did he think? -- calling us again, as is other days? For as often as she lifted the garland to the level of my hand, he sprang clear from the earth -- heavenwards, doubtless, -- but was not heaven nearer just then? I managed to bring down his fore-feet close beside her, and dropped my sword-point almost to her feet, with a bow so low I could have touched her cheek. Was it the garland's breath or hers that floated to my lips? My horse trembled. I might have solved the mystery, could I have trusted him. But he could not trust me. All that was granted me was the Christian virtue of preferring another's good and passing the dangerous office of receiving this Mizpah token to the gallant young aid behind me.

The signal sounds. Who is that mounting there? Do you see Him? How lightly He springs to the saddle. How easy He sits, straight and slender, chin advanced, eyes to the front, pictured against the sky! Well we know Him. Clear of vision, sharp of speech, true of heart, clean to the center...

You are color on a page of white
Bright like eyes beneath black lights
Like a glowing city on the plain
You call my name...
And everything about you, it takes my breath away.
I tried this once without you, and it was my great mistake.

Grace is perhaps the one thing is this world that has no cause.
 
Filled with soundless awe and wonder words fall short to hope again. How beautiful how vast your love is new forever world without an end...

I want to give you my world. To reveal all I am and all I've become. I want to give you my world. To surrender my life and all that is in me.......to you.

In that vast shadow once of yore

Fingolfin stood: his shield he bore

with field of heavens blue and star

of crystal shining pale afar.

In overmastering wrath and hate

desperate he smote upon that gate

the Gnomish king, there standing lone,

while endless fortress of stone

engulfed the thin clear ringing keen

of silver horn on baldric green.

His hopeless challenge dauntless cried

Fingolfin there: 'Come, open wide,

dark king, your ghastly brazen doors!

Come forth, whom earth and heaven abhors!

Come forth, O monstrous craven lord,

and fight with thine own hand and sword,

thou wielder of hosts of banded thralls,

thou tyrant leaguered with strong walls,

thou foe of Gods and elvish race!

I wait the here. Come! Show thy face!

Then Morgoth came. For the last time

in those great wars he dared to climb

from subterranean throne profound,

the rumor of his feet a sound

of rumbling earthquake underground.

Black-armoured, towering, iron-crowned

he issued forth; his mighty shield

a vast unblazoned sable field

with shadow like a thundercloud;

and o'er the gleaming king it bowed,

as huge aloft like mace he hurled

that hammer of the underworld,

Grond. Clanging to the ground it tumbled

down like a thunder-bolt, and crumbled

the rocks beneath it; smoke up-started,

a pit yawned and a fire darted.

Finglofin like a shooting light

beneath a cloud, a stab of white,

sprang then aside, and Ringil drew

like ice the gleameth cold and blue,

his sword devised of elvish skill

to pierce the flesh with deadly chill.

With seven wounds it rent his foe,

and seven mighty cries of woe

rang in the mountains and the earth quook,

and Angband's trembling armies shook.

Yet Orcs would after laughing tell

of the duel at the gates of hell;

though elvish song thereof was made

ere this but one -- when sad was laid

the mighty king in barrow high,

and Thorndor, Eagle of the sky,

the dreadful tidings brought and told

to mourning Elfinesse of old.

Thrice was Fingolfin with great blows

to his knees beaten, thrice he rose

still leaping up beneath the cloud

aloft to hold star-shining, proud,

his stricken shield, his sundered helm,

that dark nor might could overwhelm

till all the earth was burst and rent

in pits about him. He was spent.

His feet stumbled. He fell to wreck

upon the ground and on his neck

a foot like rooted hills was set,

and he was crushed -- not conquered yet;

one last despairing stroke he gave:

the mighty foot pale Ringil clave

about the heel, and black the blood

gushed as from smoking fount in flood.

Halt goes for ever from that stroke

great Morgoth; but the king he broke,

and would have hewn and mangled thrown

to wolves devouring. Lo! from throne

that Manwe bade him build on high,

on peak unscaled beneath the sky,

Morgoth to watch, now down there swooped

Thorndor the King of Eagles, stooped,

and rending beak of gold he smote

in Bauglir's face, then up did float

on pinions thirty fathoms wide

bearing away, though loud they cried,

the mighty corse, the Elven-king;

and where the mountains make a ring

far to the south about that plain

where after Gondolin did reign,

embattled city, at great height

upon a dizzy snowcap white

in mounded cairn the mighty dead

he laid upon the mountain's head.

Never Orc nor demon after dared

that pass to climb, o'er which there stared

Fingolfin's high and holy tomb,

till Gondolin's appointed doom.

   Are you crawling through the dismal? Grey of nothing frostbite kills. Does this world make light of weeping? Shrouds to bury, graves to fill. I am just a kindred spirit, a runner who is running still. Welcome to the longest mile, the most costly thing you'll ever hold. Wonderful is the journey. The greatest story ever told....

   I was counting stars the other night when I was so vividly reminded of the chill of the autums. Monologue is then what preceded to do and finally towards the end I found myself screaming at the top of my lungs with one last breath, "April, come!". She will lay her hands down and will yet cease to be broken and fall behind. These hazel eyes of mine alas could not see so vividly and I was lost as to why these vernal thoughts entered my mind. Limpid also were not my thoughts though as time goes one the closer they become. Someday, perhaps the profusive of us will also become munificent. That there are people also willing.

   Many will inquire as to the reason I have laid this before you, or even if one exists. To these inquiries I will answer but one question. Is there a purpose? Oh, yes. There is...