Jun 2012
They go together,
As lovers should,
And take of their love
In the shade of the wood.
It is not ugly,
Nor is it unclean
To lie in the shadow
Unknown and unseen.
Never a sorrow
Was born of two
Couched in the shadow
The whole night through.
If only lovers
Walked in the lane
No one would suffer
Or sorrow again;
But a step before them
And a step behind
Are people possessed
Of a very small mind
Who nod and whisper,
And poison the bread
Of innocent lovers
Until they are dead.
As lovers should,
And take of their love
In the shade of the wood.
It is not ugly,
Nor is it unclean
To lie in the shadow
Unknown and unseen.
Never a sorrow
Was born of two
Couched in the shadow
The whole night through.
If only lovers
Walked in the lane
No one would suffer
Or sorrow again;
But a step before them
And a step behind
Are people possessed
Of a very small mind
Who nod and whisper,
And poison the bread
Of innocent lovers
Until they are dead.
*This is not an original work by me*
This poem is by a favorite poet of mine named Byron Herbert Reece. He is a distant relative of mine. I wanted to post these poems because he is little known, and I think his work deserves to be recognized.
*the following is a short biography taken from a collection of Reece's poems titled "Ballad of the Bones".*
Byron Herbert Reece was born and reared in a secluded mountain area of North Georgia near Blairsville. Before he entered elementary school, he read "Pilgrim's Progress" and much of the Bible, upon which many of his later ballads were based. As an adult, he was a lonely mountain man who was a modestly successful dirt farmer and a poet of surpassing genius. Reece had the ability to say new things in the old traditional forms, distinguished by their simplicity and accuracy. His poetry was mystical, lonely and often seemed preoccupied with death. Reece was perhaps the greatest balladeer of the Appalachians. During his short life, he received two prestigious Guggenheim awards and lectured as Writer-in-Residence at UCLA, Emory University and Young Harris College. Reece died by his own hand on the campus of Young Harris College in early June 1958.
This poem is by a favorite poet of mine named Byron Herbert Reece. He is a distant relative of mine. I wanted to post these poems because he is little known, and I think his work deserves to be recognized.
*the following is a short biography taken from a collection of Reece's poems titled "Ballad of the Bones".*
Byron Herbert Reece was born and reared in a secluded mountain area of North Georgia near Blairsville. Before he entered elementary school, he read "Pilgrim's Progress" and much of the Bible, upon which many of his later ballads were based. As an adult, he was a lonely mountain man who was a modestly successful dirt farmer and a poet of surpassing genius. Reece had the ability to say new things in the old traditional forms, distinguished by their simplicity and accuracy. His poetry was mystical, lonely and often seemed preoccupied with death. Reece was perhaps the greatest balladeer of the Appalachians. During his short life, he received two prestigious Guggenheim awards and lectured as Writer-in-Residence at UCLA, Emory University and Young Harris College. Reece died by his own hand on the campus of Young Harris College in early June 1958.
