The Passing Of A Great Novelist
Sunday, February 18, 2007 7:33:00 PM
by Patrick P Stafford
|It is my sad duty to report the passing of Elsan H. Stafford, on January 14, 2007. He was 93 years of age and a noble man of great distinction and inimitable writings. He was also a loving father, devoted friend, great novelist and poet, raconteur, brilliant thinker, humble philosopher and World War II veteran and retired Los Angeles deputy sheriff. His passing has left the literary world sorely diminished, and the actual world truly lessen. For those interested in reading beautiful, insightful and magnificently descriptive prose, Elsan''s major writings can be purchased at the following websites (and at other online stores):
THE BLUE MARIONETTE can be bought online at: http://bluemarionette.bravehost.com/
THE PASSIONATE SWORDSMAN, TILL I COME MARCHING HOME and A LOVER''S ANTHEM can be purchased online at: http://www.SynergEbooks.com and at:
You can do an author or title search at the last site or via Yahoo or Google to read much about Elsan as well as find other bookstores where his tomes are available. Herein below is a popular poem from Elsan''s book "A Lover''s Anthem." I am his son Patrick. And it is my privilege to share my father''s beautiful poem with whomever kindly ventures here.
TIME by EHS
I take to bed and close my eyes
To escape and forget a wasted day,
And hear a voice from the Past that cries:
"Where is the promise of yesterday?
"Your years have gone with the running sand,
You've dulled your heart and stilled your hand;
You've flung your gift of Time away,
Oh, where is the promise of yesterday?"
I cannot sleep! I toss and turn!
I know the truth I will not learn:
With a light, bright heart at life's first breath,
We touch this earth from some other death;
With a gift of Time, like purest gold,
To spend from youth till we are old.
And when this precious gift is spent
Or wasted on some ill intent,
We go at last from whence we came,
And there is only ourselves to blame.
Though old in years, but young in heart,
I promise myself a brand new start.
So, resolving again, at last to keep
Yesterday's promise, I fall to sleep.
Tomorrow then comes, and another tomorrow,
And forgetfulness comes...and with it comes sorrow.
As I toss on my bed, fighting for sleep,
The voice comes again from yesterday's deep:
"Your gold is all spent from the gift that I sent,
Your brow is all furrowed, your figure is bent.
"Where is the promise of hope and joy
That dwelt in the heart of a little boy?
Where, the great deeds that never came?
Where is the hope of success and fame?
All gone! All squandered! All wasted away!
Gone!...Like your promise of yesterday!"