I walk on, through the
rustling grasses, through
the young corn stalks
greening in the sun; I
walk through the lands
of peace and plenty, of
the harvest, and the
crackling hearth; but I
tarry not in the lands of
men, and walking,
wander on.

I come at last to a stony
stream, laughing in its
bed, in its swift-water
way, and see beyond the
Greenwood fair, full
flowering scented in
the breeze.

Stepping then, through
the sun-bright stream,
heedless of the wet, of
the chill water running,
I cross, and pass from
light to shade, to the
leafing-realm, and the
calls of spring, joyous
borne, on the scented
wind.

And I pass, silent, in that
dawning spring, to lose
myself, and the marked
way; to slip the hold,
to wander free.

These thoughts of mine are
hard to keep, these flitting
things of light and shadow,
of dreams forgotten, and
of the ecstatic delirium of
madness that comes from
a night of sleepless turnings,
stimulants, enticing so,
the bodies of dreams, mine
and not. But who can tell,
among us all, among
us heaped and sprawled
and thronged, who can say
who truly dreamt, the
word that marks, the laugh
that cuts, that worms into
the hollowed space, that
takes the place ones heart
did make, first, before we
dreamt at all?

I wonder, dreaming, lost in the
twist, in the curve of the road,
in the arching endlessness of
times eternity, and we trapped
just a little behind the center,
able to glance before, but not
beyond; I wonder then, when
lost in sleep, what peace may
I find, in living life, what joy
among such twisted lies.
I think of the lily, of the holly
tree, of Christmases, and
laughter free, but ever after
thinking thus, my thoughts
turn always to the empty
dark, to the thorn, to the
adder, to the darker parts.
What joy for me, when cursed
to think, to wander in
places cold and bleak,
led, abandoned, my nature
conflicted, I yearn for the
light, I lust for the dark.
I wonder now, thinking so,
what use there be in striving
so, in knowledge that mine
is a lesser struggle, a paltry
thing, devoid of sorrow;
and yet I feel it, through
and through, I rage at the
dark, I weep at the light,
petulant, true, as a child
grown fat, grown full
in the luxury of an easy
life.

What use, you say?
Why simply this, that
life is short, yet mine new
begun, and though short
it be, yet long mayhap,
I may run in the grass,
and forget my sorrow;
or if, indeed, my life is
marked, my fate be cast
for a darker lot, a shadowed
play, a twisted plot, then
hope there is, if hope it
be, that sorrows
undreamed of may yet
find me, and I may then
in bitter relief, say then
in truth: That though
mine before was an
easy life, a spring devoid
of pain, of strife, that
now at last I have joined
the ranks, of those
who have drunk of
the vinegar of life, and
found it bitter, to the
very dregs.

I stand before the sighing mead,
form full shadowed in the trees;
and watching spy from shadowed
leaves, the spinning dance of
dandelion seeds, spinning lightly
through the trees.

I step out from the gloaming shade,
out; full washed in light fresh made,
falling free from blue-blown sky,
to warm the heart and light the eye.

Grasshoppers fleeing, I watch them
leap, new leaves given wings, to crick,
to sing; to leap and glide, to fall again.
Looking on, through lighted glen, to
watch the leaves shift amongst pillared
trees, I see a flash, a spot of white, a
brown of fur, a gleam of eye.

Swiftly now I leap and run, through
the glen I madly dash, twisting,
turning, running on, not knowing
how, or what I do.

At last, through forest, light and
shade, through grasses tall and
brambles cruel, battered, torn from
headlong flight, I cease my running,
still my stride, panting now, in
dappled light.

The Doe, she stops, and turns mid-
stride, glowing there, at chases end.
Slowly then, in aching grace, she
lowers her hoof to moulded earth,
and moves back silent to where I
stand; gliding, over Winters leave.

I stand there, staring, stock and still,
my breath comes silent, soft and
slow. She comes then closer,
stepping sure, closer still, in grace
unmatched; pure in beauty,
pure and free.

I gaze into her liquid eyes, lost
in depths before un-found; lost
in secrets, in her amber eyes.
Her breath is soft upon my face,
warm, it smells of earth, of life.
I realize then that I hold my
breath, slow I release it, silent,
soft. Her eyes blink, gently,
once, the Doe standing silent,
there before me, desire of my
heart.

It seems she will speak.

And then, I am alone, lost in
the wood, alone with the trees,
and the scent of her passing,
lingering still, on the sighing
breeze. And I am alone, with
the scent of her passing, alone
with the wind, and the sighing
trees.

I sit before my window silent,
arms at rest upon the sill; I
sit and dream of silent things,
as the rain falls slanted upon
the gabled roof; winds sighing:
and watch the falling rain
appear, and silver streak the
window-pane. I sit and dream,
the world forgotten, and even
so do my dreamings change;
no more of sad forgotten silence,
color blooms behind my eyes,
and fills my mind with rainbow
light, shining, as the glow behind
the key-hole, as the blushing
dawn fresh washed in rain.
Thunder roars beyond
the pane, and lightning cracks
the sky in twain, but out of
revery, out of dream, I do
not wake for the crashing
din. Rather, then, in sudden
sequence, in a seconds flash
of swift cessation, no more of
color do I dream, no more
on rainbow laughing light,
but in the midst of a storm of
thunder, of lightning, and the
lashing rain, high above the
foundered land, I find myself:
and amidst all that raging
torrent, between the thunder,
and the wrath of Gods most
holy lightning, a single drop of
silver shining, strikes the
point between my eyes,
wherein the third sleeping
oculus of dream doth
dwell; and I wake. A leak
in the roof.

Standing, I rise,
within, the
weight of
doubt, of
fear, of
the lack of
will to pursue
my dreams,
my goals,
my life, fall
from me...
and I am free
and alone
and together,
and happy, at
last...and all that
may be achieved
lies in my path,
waiting, and all
obstacles that
stand in my way,
are as dust
in the wind, in the
face of my will,
and the knowledge
shining within
me, that nothing
is impossible, if one
will only believe,
and have faith, in
destiny, and in
oneself.