Sunday, April 26, 2009

Why the small bird's grief is form'd of Dreams.

To his cold beauties on a summer morn,
love will smile its translucent smile,
with a rosy bosom, and eyes forlorn,
and all will be well in a little while.
To myself the Sun will keep my heart.
Oh cold Sun! I sing happy cheer!
When beloved’s song piped: he then came quite near,
then vanished, as soldiers were honored with
their wings of light.
Rose's thickest time of runes have opened
and there beheld a silver door;
then we saw, it 'twas the night,
and many white thorns thrust upon a dark shore.
My love, he laughing said,
"I've a sigh, 'tis reaches farther
than the light of woe!"
"Renew thy strength," I then replied,
"take your delight in the snow!"
But I could not be dark as the night,
for morn blushed rosy as clay,
and the dread hand of darkness faded from sight,
and the Sun, a lonely fen, was mine today.

(An older poem, written when I was 19, 20ish.)

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