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70 Lines (from Sir Piers)

And on he goes like one who rose

To walk a sea of spiders’ lace

Along the fields, and seems to sense

The breath of heaven on his face

 

And now can see a lovely thing

To charm his blinking eye:

An opening, a sky of blue

With cloudlets coasting by!

 

The fragrance of the morning!

His sense unto him shows

The Earth, and springing from its dew,

The grass with sweet winds sighing through,

Bushes and trees as yet wet through

Borne with the happy air into

Both channels of his nose.

 

And to his ears now comes the tale

In which all this is said,

The treetop finches descant high

While on some low spray growing nigh

Blackbird both murmurs lowly by

And frames the melody’s reply.

Eager to bring this to his eye

The good man gladly runs,

The tunnel opens to the sky,

He issues forth at once.

 

All in a woodland clearing

The small, unresting bee

Visits each offered flower,

The breeze each offered tree,

The dandelion thrusts forth his head

With yellow fire upon it,

The trim, demure anemone

Her neat, white, modest bonnet,

The little winking violet

By light unvisited

And tiny-fingered stitchworts

Their dainty napkins spread,

Within the wood the bluebells

Their peals of colour ring,

He knows the place – Old England.

Also the season – Spring.

 

His long, perplexing journey seems

No more to vex his head,

Like one condemned and now reprieved

He leaps for joy instead,

 

And shouting runs and waves his arms

With unrestricted mirth,

And throws his face down in the grass

To kiss the reeking earth.

 

We come from utter darkness

And soon return again,

Why is it, in this fleeting life

Of grief, of loss and pain,

The fit of bitter sorrow

Outdures the weary Moon

While joy and with it comfort

Dissolve away so soon?

Just as the pecking sparrow

At Winter’s scanty scraps

May not enjoy his morsel,

The short day’s last perhaps

For fear the shadow of the hawk

His business overlaps.

 

No sooner goes the good man

Upon that meadow blest,

No sooner is his outstretched back

Upon the rich earth pressed

Than all his limbs go tense again,

His brain can have no rest.

 

Once more into the tunnel

He has to make his way…

Request permission to use this poem
Written by
gerald-allan-donaldson
Published
Sep 18, 2014
Lines·Words
71·386
Notes

Sir Piers is a long poem (of around 1000 lines) available at:

http://sirpiers.wordpress.com/

A knight (of old) feels deserted by God after he finds himself (Connecticut Yankee-style [only backwards?]) in modern England...

Permission

Request to use this poem

Tell gerald-allan-donaldson how you would like to use it. We review requests before forwarding them.

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