When alone, the mountain valleys

Succumb to prism channels

And undecorated, we pine

In solemn verse: this cold earth,

A primeval dome of space,

Where suns and oceans meet—and now

  to surface rising

Sure, souls could trade the index

  of thy cavernous tide,

For rivers, streams, and hallowed countryside. 

         Emily Isaacson

The lunar eclipse of night,

Swathed in winds of West, South and East,

The Orient, a spiced perfume,

And regions, the fetters of skill,

The influence of history, lands, and music—

What light could shade a master’s bed.

And the bottles of wine, endowed

The cook, a bronzed pot of leeks,

With arduous hide.  

        Emily Isaacson

We stand in arms,

The light to bend us all:

The journey’s stone’s throw,

The world’s end.

We travel to the sun,

And find the wells of glory.

The walls, perchance, askew 

And now removed.  

     Emily Isaacson