"greenwood" poems
Cytherea, thy dainty Adonis is dying!
Ah, what shall we do?
O Nymphs, let it echo, the voice of your crying,
The greenwood through!
O Forest-maidens, smite on the breast,
Rend ye the delicate-woven vest!
Let the wail ring wild and high:
'Ah for Adonis!' cry.
O Sappho, how canst thou chant the bliss
Of Kypris — after such day as this?
'Oh Adonis, thou leavest me — woe for my lot!
And Eros, my servant, availeth me not!'
So wails Cytherea, grief-distraught.
'Who shall console me for thee? There is none —
Not Ares my god-lover, passionate one
Who sware in his jealousy forth to hale
Hephaestus my spouse from his palace, if he
Dared but to lift his eyes unto me.
Not he can console me, Adonis, for thee!'
Wail for Adonis, wail!
4.4k
Amiens sings: Under the greenwood tree,
Who loves to lie with me,
And turn his merry note
Unto the sweet bird’s throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.
Who doth ambition shun,
And loves to live i’ the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,
And pleased with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.
Jaques replies: If it do come to pass
That any man turn ***
Leaving his wealth and ease
A stubborn will to please,
Ducdamè, ducdamè, ducdamè:
Here shall he see
Gross fools as he,
An if he will come to me.
3.7k
1
Awake ye muses nine, sing me a strain divine,
Unwind the solemn twine, and tie my Valentine!
Oh the Earth was made for lovers, for damsel, and hopeless swain,
For sighing, and gentle whispering, and unity made of twain.
All things do go a courting, in earth, or sea, or air,
God hath made nothing single but thee in His world so fair!
The bride, and then the bridegroom, the two, and then the one,
Adam, and Eve, his consort, the moon, and then the sun;
The life doth prove the precept, who obey shall happy be,
Who will not serve the sovereign, be hanged on fatal tree.
The high do seek the lowly, the great do seek the small,
None cannot find who seeketh, on this terrestrial ball;
The bee doth court the flower, the flower his suit receives,
And they make merry wedding, whose guests are hundred leaves;
The wind doth woo the branches, the branches they are won,
And the father fond demandeth the maiden for his son.
The storm doth walk the seashore humming a mournful tune,
The wave with eye so pensive, looketh to see the moon,
Their spirits meet together, they make their solemn vows,
No more he singeth mournful, her sadness she doth lose.
The worm doth woo the mortal, death claims a living bride,
Night unto day is married, morn unto eventide;
Earth is a merry damsel, and heaven a knight so true,
And Earth is quite coquettish, and beseemeth in vain to sue.
Now to the application, to the reading of the roll,
To bringing thee to justice, and marshalling thy soul:
Thou art a human solo, a being cold, and lone,
Wilt have no kind companion, thou reap’st what thou hast sown.
Hast never silent hours, and minutes all too long,
And a deal of sad reflection, and wailing instead of song?
There’s Sarah, and Eliza, and Emeline so fair,
And Harriet, and Susan, and she with curling hair!
Thine eyes are sadly blinded, but yet thou mayest see
Six true, and comely maidens sitting upon the tree;
Approach that tree with caution, then up it boldly climb,
And seize the one thou lovest, nor care for space, or time!
Then bear her to the greenwood, and build for her a bower,
And give her what she asketh, jewel, or bird, or flower—
And bring the fife, and trumpet, and beat upon the drum—
And bid the world Goodmorrow, and go to glory home!
3.6k
Karma police, arrest this man
He talks in maths
He buzzes like a fridge
He's like a detuned radio
Karma police, arrest this girl
Her ****** hairdo is
Making me feel ill
And we have crashed her party
*This is what you get
This is what you get
This is what you get when you mess with us*
Karma Police
I've given all I can
It's not enough
I've given all I can
But we're still on the payroll
*This is what you get
This is what you get
This is what you get when you mess with us*
And for a minute there, I lost myself, I lost myself
And for a minute there, I lost myself, I lost myself
For for a minute there, I lost myself, I lost myself
For for a minute there, I lost myself, I lost myself
Phew, for a minute there, I lost myself, I lost myself
(In the early version, the first verse went):
Karma police arrest this girl
She stares at me
As if she owns the world and
We have crashed her party
Songwriters: YORKE, THOMAS / O'BRIEN, EDWARD JOHN / GREENWOOD, COLIN CHARLES / GREENWOOD, JONATHAN RICHARD GUY / SELWAY, PHILIP
S T - 24 nov 2013
Nov 24, 2013
Nov 24, 2013 at 2:32 AM UTC
Ghost Relics
Downtown,
where Main intersects Main
you'll see the last living tissue
of a breathing bazaar.
They weighed down her chest with bricks and girders.
It's a wonder she breathes at all.
-
Wander too far in any direction
and you're sure to see the husks
of once proud and bustling businesses.
Abandoned sanctums of mortar and majesty.
Scars of the Midwest etched as constants in our mind.
Dusty and silent since the cradle.
-
The theaters are bedeviled with dolled up haunts
who just wandered over from Greenwood to catch the matinee.
Management still leaves the lights on for kicks after hours
to throw off their sleep schedules while they wait for the feature to start.
Up all night, sleep all day; they read by neon and slumber under Sol.
Here I am, left lounging in The Devil's Chair. Crickets keep quavering.
-
Underneath the Franklin Street overpass sleeps a family bound by naught.
They watch in dawn's light as the few pedestrian that traverse Cerro Gordo
advert their eyes as some sort of silent symbol of respect for their situation.
It's as if the very stare of a privileged man could drain 'til depleted.
They never ask for anything, they just wade it out and listen to
the cars overhead, the train-clock's trumpet, and the heartbeats in between.
-
Leaks are patched, potholes filled, and yet
we're still loosing blood; becoming beguiled.
So many stray cats in the civilian savanna,
aimlessly seeking names and second chances.
"This premises is under police video surveillance" -
hanging like ornaments from streetlamp poles.
-
Guarding the gates
of a dwindling dominion,
as the armies of Union and Grand
wait in their camps
for the rust to take hold
of her iron veins.
Jun 14, 2014
Jun 14, 2014 at 12:52 AM UTC
Hold hard, these ancient minutes in the cuckoo's month,
Under the lank, fourth folly on Glamorgan's hill,
As the green blooms ride upward, to the drive of time;
Time, in a folly's rider, like a county man
Over the vault of ridings with his hound at heel,
Drives forth my men, my children, from the hanging south.
Country, your sport is summer, and December's pools
By crane and water-tower by the seedy trees
Lie this fifth month unskated, and the birds have flown;
Holy hard, my country children in the world if tales,
The greenwood dying as the deer fall in their tracks,
The first and steepled season, to the summer's game.
And now the horns of England, in the sound of shape,
Summon your snowy horsemen, and the four-stringed hill,
Over the sea-gut loudening, sets a rock alive;
Hurdles and guns and railings, as the boulders heave,
Crack like a spring in vice, bone breaking April,
Spill the lank folly's hunter and the hard-held hope.
Down fall four padding weathers on the scarlet lands,
Stalking my children's faces with a tail of blood,
Time, in a rider rising, from the harnessed valley;
Hold hard, my country darlings, for a hawk descends,
Golden Glamorgan straightens, to the falling birds.
Your sport is summer as the spring runs angrily.
2.5k
Sara not so plain and not so tall
Daydreaming in the shopping mall
As blond as a summer day
Speaking of herself in a peculiar way:
"I'm pretty, yes, but I wish to be better;
To be the admiration of a love letter."
But her beauty is the kind that lasts
And makes your heart beat especially fast.
Finland born but London found,
Lovely, sure, but greatness bound.
And the nights grow more tiresome,
as her chest beats a tattered drum.
Her mood too dreary for speckled eyes
that will dim if night blurs into sunrise.
"Sleep why do you run from me,
as my memories grow.
Eyelids, be a blanket,
And melatonin, a pillow."
Victoria Lucas in her head,
as the bell does ring until fed
by the words that sound soft to us
but are actually strong and thus
she is misunderstood-lips are red-
Like Greenwood inspired, kissed dread:
She can save herself before jarred,
Before feathered, before tarred.
And it is my faith that lets me know,
That her happiness will one day grow
Because Sara not so plain and not so tall
Is the strongest of them all
Nov 20, 2014
Nov 20, 2014 at 1:51 PM UTC
Bitten by a spider
at the oddest hour.
His whole body throbbing
with his own pulse.
All his insides are charred
but sleep is not a willing
companion.
The eternal coronation,
death as his champion.
Sweating through a thin veil
of details, begging the question,
begging for recognition,
even the most elegant logic is an ugly thing.
In delirium, he tears his journal apart-
that's how an artist starts.
He is ugly,
he is crude,
he drank some poison
down in Greenwood.
he becomes quite faint
when struck with the
quaint notion:
that even the heavy
handed blacksmith
has finesse, and feeling too.
Apr 29, 2013
Apr 29, 2013 at 9:50 PM UTC
this is a poem about the Tulsa Race Riots
terrorism doesn't compare to self destruction.
disaster between the slaves, and their masters
we're richer, but they're smarter.
black wall street abolished, its name never in vain
although we remember, we'll never understand the pain
with our own eyes, it would leave us blind
by flash bombs, envy, discrimination
and hatred of our own kind.
gunpowder made buildings fly against the street lights
red and green, bombs still singing, ears still ringing,
we might as well be deaf.
the grass is always greener,
but our skin will never change or fade away
and to live in the past destroys our future
because just when we started to rise from the ashes
we burnt ourselves down again
from opposite sides of the city,
north and south
attract like polar opposites
wasting away green with envy
you can try to forget
because theres new paved concrete
but its still the same street
we owe to the stampede
jealously, destruction, revolution, prosperity
worn out buildings and bricks trapped us
but we're still free
under state laws
but only conditionally
the city sleeps when we do
but stays up late with disdain
days wasted and blown into the air
like concrete and fame
its a shame that
race riots black wall street and greenwood share the same name
it can't stay this way
one day, tulsa you'll change
you'll paint the streets again
faces engrained on
black walls like oil spills
treading new roads
buildings towering above
there are bodies below our feet
but that doesn't mean we're above them
and one day we'll breathe again
we'll write the names back into our history books
their sacrifice on our tongues
remembered, never in vain
like saviors honoring the pain
but never throwing it away
greenwood rising again.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 4:46 AM UTC
On Christmas Day we wake up
We've no stocking on our bed
We've got a plastic kit box
taking up space there instead
You see, we aren't at home with you
Even though you wish we are
We're celebrating Christmas
Over here in Khandahar
A big Merry Christmas to friends and family
of Cpl. Mike Cannandale of St. Louis, Missouri, USA
We have our turkey dinner too
Stuffing, taters, pumpkin pie
We all sit here telling stories
And it's hard just not to cry
so, we do, because we're not back home
Having Christmas like you all
But, we're over here in Khandahar
Because we all answered the call
Merry Christmas to all friends and family of Liuetenant James Mc Caskill
of Great Grimsby, Lincolnshire, England
We have a snowman by our tent
He's made of plywood, painted white
Thank god, we made no snowballs up
We'd get splinters in a fight
We go to church and pray for peace
And wish we could go home
But, over here at Christmas time
There's just no where to roam
Merry Christmas to friends and family of
Captiain John Watson, PPCLI, in Greenwood, Nova Scotia, Canada
We made our videos last week
To send you our best wishes
We'd all love to be back with you
Washing up those Christmas dishes
For now, we are one family
Joined in heart, and soul and mind
Having a Christmas meal in Khandahar
The best meal of it's kind
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to friends
and family, of Marine Master Sgt. Tim Wilcox, Plano, Texas, USA
Next year we will be home with you
Having Christmas as we should
Praying for peace, hope and prosperity
And all things that are good
for now though, we are over here
missing you this Christmas Day
We just hope you're thinking of us
As we keep the foe at bay
Merry Christmas to all the friends, family, co-workers and supporters
of all the soldiers in War Zones everywhere, who can't be at home this Christmas
May they all get home safe.
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year
Dec 12, 2012
Dec 12, 2012 at 7:34 PM UTC
A bush lark in the Greenwood forest sings.
She sings all day long near the mountain springs.
Is she trilling in notes so plaintive of her missing mate?
Unleashing her heart of its doleful weight?
Or easing the pangs of a heart that starves
For a soulmate yet to come for whom she craves?
Or sending a missive through the aerial route
Sounding in every ear a low melancholy note?
From the covert of dark leaves, her song percolates.
Through the sinews of my heart it permeates,
Striking a cord between two souls equally deprived,
Stirring in me an inarticulate ache, never once divulged.
Mar 23, 2018
Mar 23, 2018 at 12:17 PM UTC
Can't get the stink off
He's been hanging round for days
Comes like a comet
Suckered you but not your friends
One day he'll get to you
And teach you how to be a holy cow
*You do it to yourself, you do
And that's what really hurts
Is that you do it to yourself
Just you and no one else
You do it to yourself
You do it to yourself*
Don't get my sympathy
Hanging out the 15th floor
You've changed the locks three times
He still comes reeling through the door
One day I'll get you
And teach you how to get to purest hell
*You do it to yourself, you do
And that's what really hurts
Is that you do it to yourself
Just you, you and no one else
You do it to yourself
You do it to yourself
You do it to yourself, you do
And that's what really hurts
Is that you do it to yourself
Just you, you and no one else
You do it to yourself
You do it to yourself.. yourself.. yourself..*
Writer(s): Jonathan Richard Guy Greenwood, Thomas Edward Yorke, Philip James Selway, Edward John O'brien, Colin Charles Greenwood
Copyright: Warner/Chappell Music Ltd.
ST - 10 ocky-tocky 2013
Oct 10, 2013
Oct 10, 2013 at 3:29 PM UTC
tonight,
my shadow settles
in a different corner of the world
and his obscures me
content to hang on my frame
shielding any light from my eyes
faith's grievance -
the gravest sin I'd commit
salt to skin
faith's only albatross -
the bits of faith I'd toss
like Ms. Greenwood's dress
into the darkest parts of New York
like I think of my name
winking into the fixed abyss
indifferent to its prior disguise
when it does not leave the lungs enough
and on the height of my fuss,
inspiration flees
like a sour gust through the city at night
- a hint of death
a tinge of it on my hands
the void I fault for its expanse
promises to snarl his shadow from my shoulder
invites me into its limbo
desperately whines my title
it calls with little confidence,
but I linger to step in
flecks of gray interrupting the black
wafting,
purposeless black
will I?
will I live, wander the world's breadth
with the impetus of two dead legs
or will I become a cry of breath?
I flirt with two dooms,
swinging like a two-phase-moon;
stay, go, stay, go
weighing the whimper of my soul
against brain's drive to die alone
Oct 23, 2018
Oct 23, 2018 at 10:27 PM UTC
Our band is few, but true and tried,
Our leader frank and bold;
The British soldier trembles
When Marion's name is told.
Our fortress is the good greenwood,
Our tent the cypress-tree;
We know the forest round us,
As ****** know the sea.
We know its walls of thorny vines,
Its glades of reedy grass,
Its safe and silent islands
Within the dark morass.
Wo to the English soldiery
That little dread us near!
On them shall light at midnight
A strange and sudden fear:
When waking to their tents on fire
They grasp their arms in vain,
And they who stand to face us
Are beat to earth again;
And they who fly in terror deem
A mighty host behind,
And hear the ***** of thousands
Upon the hollow wind.
Then sweet the hour that brings release
From danger and from toil:
We talk the battle over,
And share the battle's spoil.
The woodland rings with laugh and shout,
As if a hunt were up,
And woodland flowers are gathered
To crown the soldier's cup.
With merry songs we mock the wind
That in the pine-top grieves,
And slumber long and sweetly
On beds of oaken leaves.
Well knows the fair and friendly moon
The band that Marion leads--
The glitter of their rifles,
The scampering of their steeds.
'Tis life to guide the fiery barb
Across the moonlight plain;
'Tis life to feel the night-wind
That lifts his tossing mane.
A moment in the British camp--
A moment--and away
Back to the pathless forest,
Before the peep of day.
Grave men there are by broad Santee,
Grave men with hoary hairs,
Their hearts are all with Marion,
For Marion are their prayers.
And lovely ladies greet our band
With kindliest welcoming,
With smiles like those of summer,
And tears like those of spring.
For them we wear these trusty arms,
And lay them down no more
Till we have driven the Briton,
For ever, from our shore.
1.4k
I know your pain,
They broke my bones and divided me.
Where have you been?
It’s been 19 years of this ****** mess.
This is your mother asleep at the wheel, This is your brothers blood in the backseat
When everything you love only seems like something you feel.
Sacred sediment wrapped in white gold.
Shiny as god’s revolver but twice as cold.
What you hear is all Casablanca and she’s shivering cold.
They took your teeth, fragments of what they sold.
Take these seams from me.
Split them down these American IV dreams.
Take these seams from me.
Take these two lips, cut me clean and free.
She put me out like a cigarette.
Burned at both ends.
And my history to the anesthetist
and my body to surgeons
Take these words from me.
These cystic fibrosis regimes.
Take these words from me.
Light blue collar worker bees.
- MW
Jul 28, 2011
Jul 28, 2011 at 9:32 PM UTC
I have a track meet to get to
but the service was horrible here,
“How about a free meet on us?”
…as everyone storms towards the door.
(The Pied Piper’s daughter wins everything)
just look at the ***** look she gave me
we should leave…
we’re gonna be late for the meet…
I slept naked for him
I called three times
I waited, but not all night
(he’s not worth it)
I just would’ve been ***** anyway
Acorns impact the roof
like fangs to a throat
(stop the thundering)
I can’t think. So I eat.
Do you want her number?
Here…go **** yourself together
while I end up like Esther.
“Miss Greenwood? you have a visitor here to see you…”
Aug 30, 2010
Aug 30, 2010 at 3:21 PM UTC
⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝
.madame's stifled feverish
tittering,
voice raucous as tamped in a
corselet,
translucent skin akin to pellucid
drapery,
overwrought hands entwined in champagne
hair,
madame's eccentricity is her
lunacy.
⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝
⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝
.the mellifluous static of the ebony
radio,
dulcet hallucinations imbricate in her
Crumpet,
ephemeral visionary of the
erstwhile,
Madame’s a suitable fandangle tenant of the
bedlam.
⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝
⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝
.madame scrutinized the greenwood through the
crevice,
appetency for the veil of sea
smoke,
imperceptive to her
frenzy.
⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝
⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝
.ensnared in an austere
plight,
madame’s urbane actuality,
disenfranchised.
⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝
⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝
.the exuberant dimension of reciting
hysteria.
⇜⇝⇜⇝⇜⇝
Sep 18, 2018
Sep 18, 2018 at 1:24 PM UTC
I know your pain,
They broke my bones and divided me.
Where have you been?
It’s been 19 years of this ****** mess.
This is your mother asleep at the wheel, This is your brothers blood in the backseat
When everything you love only seems like something you feel.
Sacred sediment wrapped in white gold.
Shiny as god’s revolver but twice as cold.
What you hear is all Casablanca and she’s shivering cold.
They took your teeth, fragments of what they sold.
Take these seams from me.
Split them down these American IV dreams.
Take these seams from me.
Take these two lips, cut me clean and free.
She put me out like a cigarette.
Burned at both ends.
And my history to the anesthetist
and my body to surgeons
Take these words from me.
These cystic fibrosis regimes.
Take these words from me.
Light blue collar worker bees.
- MW
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 5:42 AM UTC
Under the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me,
And turn his merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.
Who doth ambition shun,
And loves to live i' the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,
And pleas'd with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither:
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.
Jun 30, 2014
Jun 30, 2014 at 3:12 AM UTC
Where this arrow
all untamed
should land
Bury me there
in the greenwood
Or burn me on
the mighty river
Or give me to birds
or sea creatures
too fabulous to mention
Where this arrow falls
leave me there untended
time and flying arrow
spent
Apr 25, 2016
Apr 25, 2016 at 3:25 AM UTC
The rains that once brought her the warmth of his gentle embrace,
Those rains have returned,
But now there is no more reassuring warmth
nor is there the scent of love,
His freshly splashed aftershave no longer mingles with the raindrops on her cheeks.
Under this lush greenwood avenue would she and he caress and talk,
Their shy miles spoke sweeter than words,
They had no need for long nightly chats,
Their love ran deeper and smoother than the reservoir
Where they used to sit in the days before the rains came.
In the field where he once played under the shade of the old oak tree,
Now there is only a burnt out stump,
Lightening struck there once and tore out the heart of the oak,
Softly falls the rain, deep it runs into the roots and veins,
Her sinking subconscious swims through the fragrance of the falling rain.
On the evening air there is a sigh of another dying day,
The pathway ahead of her shimmers with the wet memory pools of another dead day,
Somewhere along this now lonely road she lost something rare,
After the fall of love she found a way to live under the cold cloak of life,
Without him there by her side under the umbrella there is no reflection of joy.
Behind her, shadows of the past call after her, begging her to turn back,
Ahead of her, the path grows a little lighter,
Above her, the trees and clouds shift apart to shower light and hope,
Around her, the leaves glow green and red and yellow gold,
There was a storm once, and after the rains, came the silence of solitude.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 9:28 AM UTC
Soon this short Icharion flight
Is coming to an end
And on that day you'll mourn the rights
You chose not to defend
Passing on the plight of patriots
We piddle on their graves
Play sad songs and hold our hearts
While the blood spattered banner waves
But the cries of a billion tiny voices
As they cry themselves to sleep
Can't be heard above Lee Greenwood
As the tears streak down our cheeks
It's awfully sad to see such things
In such a sorry state
But ignorance is only bliss
Until it's your head on the stake
Our eyes attract to shiny things
Bright lights like fishing lures
Robbed at gunpoint before we're paid
We're either soldiers or we're ******
As these toxins trace my tiny veins
And seep through every cell
I can't help but taste distain
And think that this has to be Hell
Sep 7, 2010
Sep 7, 2010 at 8:32 PM UTC
Lord of Green
My name is Rook, Lord of the Greenwood.
Protector of the Forest, Shepherd of the Trees.
The Maiden of the Glades, my Lady Leaf
speaks the truth with everything she sees.
I mourn the loss of spinneys and copse.
I grieve at the death of my beautiful Trees.
Lady Leaf cools me, soothes my torrid ire
and speaks truth with everything she sees.
The truth she speaks, are the words of Nature.
Making me weep, as she brings sun to the day.
Waking my slumbering world, arousing the Green
so deer can graze, birds can sing and We can play.
The truth she speaks, the words 'I love you'
burn into my breaking heart, and I feel relief.
I see the forest anew, my Trees come to life.
Teaming into me, thank you my sweet Lady Leaf.
© Pagan Paul (17/06/16)
Aug 7, 2016
Aug 7, 2016 at 4:58 PM UTC
How come the world is good
when I am dumb as a plank of wood
worried that women are smiling at me
I'll run and hide up a big oak tree
some help my pals they push me on
"Make a move before she's gone!"
no I'll hide and pretend I am dead
or suddenly in a coma instead
all this girl stuff leaves me perplexed
I know they are sort of a different ***
nicer shape and not quite so hairy
though some back in Wales are really scary
it's not like I am truly fussed
for a perfect figure? a shapely bust?
no, find me a woman with spirit and love
like she fell off a cloud from up above
or grew in a glade in the great greenwood
she can banish my fears with her powers of good
she can bully and laugh and kick my ***
though the best of my friends she'll have to pass
but I guess if she can withstand both of those
she'll have earned her right to hold me close
Feb 13, 2011
Feb 13, 2011 at 1:50 PM UTC
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.
Sep 1, 2016
Sep 1, 2016 at 10:33 PM UTC