Classic Poem

I pray to be the tool which to your hand
—Long use has shaped and moulded till it be
—Apt for your need, and, unconsideringly,
You take it for its service. I demand
To be forgotten in the woven strand
—Which grows the multi-coloured tapestry
—Of your bright life, and through its tissues lie
A hidden, strong, sustaining, grey-toned band.
—I wish to dwell around your daylight dreams,
The railing to the stairway of the clouds,
—To guard your steps securely up, where streams
A faery moonshine washing pale the crowds
—Of pointed stars. Remember not whereby
—You mount, protected, to the far-flung sky.