Eternity (Poem)

There they are—
The pages filled in earthly books
About great men of old,
Those who fought in battles large,
Or gave grand speeches bold—
Slowly turning,
Simply turning:
Life’s great stories told.

But I wonder—
What’s off in a far eternity,
The future without end,
When all is said and done and been,
No other acts to lend?
Who can say it?
Who can know it?
Nothing more to mend.

Isn’t there more?
The pages flash before my eyes
Of some infinity—
Children of a heavenly Being
In plain felicity:
“Thank you so much;
I owe you so much;
Thanks for helping me.”

So it’s true then—
The simple things we do each day,
Amid the tears and strife,
To help and build, assist all else,
The music of the fife.
So important,
Simply meaning
The purpose of our life.