If from the public way you turn your steps
Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll,
You will suppose that with an upright path
Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent
The pastoral mountains front you, face to face.
But, courage! for around that boisterous brook
The mountains have all opened out themselves,
And made a hidden valley of their own.
No habitation can be seen; but they
Who journey thither find themselves alone
With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites
That overhead are sailing in the sky.
It is in truth an utter solitude;
Nor should I have made mention of this Dell
But for one object which you might pass by,
Might see and notice not. Beside the brook
Appears a straggling heap of unhewn stones!
And to that simple object appertains
A story—unenriched with strange events,
Yet not unfit, I deem, for the fireside,
Or for the summer shade. It was the first
Of those domestic tales that spake to me
Of Shepherds, dwellers in the valleys, men
Whom I already loved;—not verily
For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills
Where was their occupation and abode.
And hence this Tale, while I was yet a Boy
Careless of books, yet having felt the power
Of Nature, by the gentle agency
Of natural objects, led me on to feel
For passions that were not my own, and think
(At random and imperfectly indeed)
On man, the heart of man, and human life.
Therefore, although it be a history
Homely and rude, I will relate the same
For the delight of a few natural hearts;
And, with yet fonder feeling, for the sake
Of youthful Poets, who among these hills
Will be my second self when I am gone.

     Upon the forest-side in Grasmere Vale
There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name;
An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb.
His ****** frame had been from youth to age
Of an unusual strength: his mind was keen,
Intense, and frugal, apt for all affairs,
And in his shepherd’s calling he was prompt
And watchful more than ordinary men.
Hence had he learned the meaning of all winds,
Of blasts of every tone; and oftentimes,
When others heeded not, he heard the South
Make subterraneous music, like the noise
Of bagpipers on distant Highland hills.
The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock
Bethought him, and he to himself would say,
“The winds are now devising work for me!”
And, truly, at all times, the storm, that drives
The traveller to a shelter, summoned him
Up to the mountains: he had been alone
Amid the heart of many thousand mists,
That came to him, and left him, on the heights.
So lived he till his eightieth year was past.
And grossly that man errs, who should suppose
That the green valleys, and the streams and rocks,
Were things indifferent to the Shepherd’s thoughts.
Fields, where with cheerful spirits he had breathed
The common air; hills, which with vigorous step
He had so often climbed; which had impressed
So many incidents upon his mind
Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear;
Which, like a book, preserved the memory
Of the dumb animals, whom he had saved,
Had fed or sheltered, linking to such acts
The certainty of honourable gain;
Those fields, those hills—what could they less? had laid
Strong hold on his affections, were to him
A pleasurable feeling of blind love,
The pleasure which there is in life itself .

     His days had not been passed in singleness.
His Helpmate was a comely matron, old—
Though younger than himself full twenty years.
She was a woman of a stirring life,
Whose heart was in her house: two wheels she had
Of antique form; this large, for spinning wool;
That small, for flax; and, if one wheel had rest,
It was because the other was at work.
The Pair had but one inmate in their house,
An only Child, who had been born to them
When Michael, telling o’er his years, began
To deem that he was old,—in shepherd’s phrase,
With one foot in the grave. This only Son,
With two brave sheep-dogs tried in many a storm,
The one of an inestimable worth,
Made all their household. I may truly say,
That they were as a proverb in the vale
For endless industry. When day was gone,
And from their occupations out of doors
The Son and Father were come home, even then,
Their labour did not cease; unless when all
Turned to the cleanly supper-board, and there,
Each with a mess of pottage and skimmed milk,
Sat round the basket piled with oaten cakes,
And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when the meal
Was ended, Luke (for so the Son was named)
And his old Father both betook themselves
To such convenient work as might employ
Their hands by the fireside; perhaps to card
Wool for the Housewife’s spindle, or repair
Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe,
Or other implement of house or field.

     Down from the ceiling, by the chimney’s edge,
That in our ancient uncouth country style
With huge and black projection overbrowed
Large space beneath, as duly as the light
Of day grew dim the Housewife hung a lamp,
An aged utensil, which had performed
Service beyond all others of its kind.
Early at evening did it burn—and late,
Surviving comrade of uncounted hours,
Which, going by from year to year, had found,
And left the couple neither gay perhaps
Nor cheerful, yet with objects and with hopes,
Living a life of eager industry.
And now, when Luke had reached his eighteenth year,
There by the light of this old lamp they sate,
Father and Son, while far into the night
The Housewife plied her own peculiar work,
Making the cottage through the silent hours
Murmur as with the sound of summer flies.
This light was famous in its neighbourhood,
And was a public symbol of the life
That thrifty Pair had lived. For, as it chanced,
Their cottage on a plot of rising ground
Stood single, with large prospect, north and south,
High into Easedale, up to Dunmail-Raise,
And westward to the village near the lake;
And from this constant light, so regular
And so far seen, the House itself, by all
Who dwelt within the limits of the vale,
Both old and young, was named The Evening Star.

     Thus living on through such a length of years,
The Shepherd, if he loved himself, must needs
Have loved his Helpmate; but to Michael’s heart
This son of his old age was yet more dear—
Less from instinctive tenderness, the same
Fond spirit that blindly works in the blood of all—
Than that a child, more than all other gifts
That earth can offer to declining man,
Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts,
And stirrings of inquietude, when they
By tendency of nature needs must fail.
Exceeding was the love he bare to him,
His heart and his heart’s joy! For oftentimes
Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms,
Had done him female service, not alone
For pastime and delight, as is the use
Of fathers, but with patient mind enforced
To acts of tenderness; and he had rocked
His cradle, as with a woman’s gentle hand.

     And, in a later time, ere yet the Boy
Had put on boy’s attire, did Michael love,
Albeit of a stern unbending mind,
To have the Young-one in his sight, when he
Wrought in the field, or on his shepherd’s stool
Sate with a fettered sheep before him stretched
Under the large old oak, that near his door
Stood single, and, from matchless depth of shade,
Chosen for the Shearer’s covert from the sun,
Thence in our rustic dialect was called
The Clipping Tree, a name which yet it bears.
There, while they two were sitting in the shade,
With others round them, earnest all and blithe,
Would Michael exercise his heart with looks
Of fond correction and reproof bestowed
Upon the Child, if he disturbed the sheep
By catching at their legs, or with his shouts
Scared them, while they lay still beneath the shears.

     And when by Heaven’s good grace the boy grew up
A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek
Two steady roses that were five years old;
Then Michael from a winter coppice cut
With his own hand a sapling, which he hooped
With iron, making it throughout in all
Due requisites a perfect shepherd’s staff,
And gave it to the Boy; wherewith equipt
He as a watchman oftentimes was placed
At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock;
And, to his office prematurely called,
There stood the urchin, as you will divine,
Something between a hindrance and a help,
And for this cause not always, I believe,
Receiving from his Father hire of praise;
Though nought was left undone which staff, or voice,
Or looks, or threatening gestures, could perform.

     But soon as Luke, full ten years old, could stand
Against the mountain blasts; and to the heights,
Not fearing toil, nor length of weary ways,
He with his Father daily went, and they
Were as companions, why should I relate
That objects which the Shepherd loved before
Were dearer now? that from the Boy there came
Feelings and emanations—things which were
Light to the sun and music to the wind;
And that the old Man’s heart seemed born again?

     Thus in his Father’s sight the Boy grew up:
And now, when he had reached his eighteenth year,
He was his comfort and his daily hope.

     While in this sort the simple household lived
From day to day, to Michael’s ear there came
Distressful tidings. Long before the time
Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound
In surety for his brother’s son, a man
Of an industrious life, and ample means;
But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly
Had prest upon him; and old Michael now
Was summoned to discharge the forfeiture,
A grievous penalty, but little less
Than half his substance. This unlooked-for claim
At the first hearing, for a moment took
More hope out of his life than he supposed
That any old man ever could have lost.
As soon as he had armed himself with strength
To look his trouble in the face, it seemed
The Shepherd’s sole resource to sell at once
A portion of his patrimonial fields.
Such was his first resolve; he thought again,
And his heart failed him. “Isabel,” said he,
Two evenings after he had heard the news,
“I have been toiling more than seventy years,
And in the open sunshine of God’s love
Have we all lived; yet, if these fields of ours
Should pass into a stranger’s hand, I think
That I could not lie quiet in my grave.
Our lot is a hard lot; the sun himself
Has scarcely been more diligent than I;
And I have lived to be a fool at last
To my own family. An evil man
That was, and made an evil choice, if he
Were false to us; and, if he were not false,
There are ten thousand to whom loss like this
Had been no sorrow. I forgive him;—but
’Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus.

     “When I began, my purpose was to speak
Of remedies and of a cheerful hope.
Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land
Shall not go from us, and it shall be free;
He shall possess it, free as is the wind
That passes over it. We have, thou know’st,
Another kinsman—he will be our friend
In this distress. He is a prosperous man,
Thriving in trade and Luke to him shall go,
And with his kinsman’s help and his own thrift
He quickly will repair this loss, and then
He may return to us. If here he stay,
What can be done? Where every one is poor,
What can be gained?”

                                          At this the old Man paused,
And Isabel sat silent, for her mind
Was busy, looking back into past times.
There’s Richard Bateman, thought she to herself,
He was a parish-boy—at the church-door
They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence,
And halfpennies, wherewith the neighbours bought
A basket, which they filled with pedlar’s wares;
And, with this basket on his arm, the lad
Went up to London, found a master there,
Who, out of many, chose the trusty boy
To go and overlook his merchandise
Beyond the seas; where he grew wondrous rich,
And left estates and monies to the poor,
And, at his birth-place, built a chapel floored
With marble, which he sent from foreign lands.
These thoughts, and many others of like sort,
Passed quickly through the mind of Isabel,
And her face brightened. The old Man was glad,
And thus resumed:—”Well, Isabel! this scheme
These two days has been meat and drink to me.
Far more than we have lost is left us yet.
—We have enough—I wish indeed that I
Were younger;—but this hope is a good hope.
Make ready Luke’s best garments, of the best
Buy for him more, and let us send him forth
To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night:
—If he could go, the boy should go to-night.”

     Here Michael ceased, and to the fields went forth
With a light heart. The Housewife for five days
Was restless morn and night, and all day long
Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare.
Things needful for the journey of her Son.
But Isabel was glad when Sunday came
To stop her in her work: for, when she lay
By Michael’s side, she through the last two nights
Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep:
And when they rose at morning she could see
That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon
She said to Luke, while they two by themselves
Were sitting at the door, “Thou must not go:
We have no other Child but thee to lose,
None to remember—do not go away,
For if thou leave thy Father he will die.”
The Youth made answer with a jocund voice;
And Isabel, when she had told her fears,
Recovered heart. That evening her best fare
Did she bring forth, and all together sat
Like happy people round a Christmas fire.

     With daylight Isabel resumed her work;
And all the ensuing week the house appeared
As cheerful as a grove in Spring: at length
The expected letter from their kinsman came,
With kind assurances that he would do
His utmost for the welfare of the Boy;
To which requests were added, that forthwith
He might be sent to him. Ten times or more
The letter was read over, Isabel
Went forth to show it to the neighbours round;
Nor was there at that time on English land
A prouder heart than Luke’s. When Isabel
Had to her house returned, the old man said,
“He shall depart to-morrow.” To this word
The Housewife answered, talking much of things
Which, if at such short notice he should go,
Would surely be forgotten. But at length
She gave consent, and Michael was at ease.

     Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Ghyll,
In that deep valley, Michael had designed
To build a Sheep-fold; and, before he heard
The tidings of his melancholy loss,
For this same purpose he had gathered up
A heap of stones, which by the streamlet’s edge
Lay thrown together, ready for the work.
With Luke that evening thitherward he walked:
And soon as they had reached the place he stopped,
And thus the old Man spake to him:—”My Son,
To-morrow thou wilt leave me: with full heart
I look upon thee, for thou art the same
That wert a promise to me ere thy birth,
And all thy life hast been my daily joy.
I will relate to thee some little part
Of our two histories; ’twill do thee good
When thou art from me, even if I should touch
On things thou canst not know of.—After thou
First cam’st into the world—as oft befalls
To new-born infants—thou didst sleep away
Two days, and blessings from thy Father’s tongue
Then fell upon thee. Day by day passed on,
And still I loved thee with increasing love.
Never to living ear came sweeter sounds
Than when I heard thee by our own fireside
First uttering, without words, a natural tune;
While thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy
Sing at thy Mother’s breast. Month followed month,
And in the open fields my life was passed,
And on the mountains; else I think that thou
Hadst been brought up upon thy Father’s knees.
But we were playmates, Luke: among these hills,
As well thou knowest, in us the old and young
Have played together, nor with me didst thou
Lack any pleasure which a boy can know.”
Luke had a manly heart; but at these words
He sobbed aloud. The old Man grasped his hand,
And said, “Nay, do not take it so—I see
That these are things of which I need not speak.
—Even to the utmost I have been to thee
A kind and a good Father: and herein
I but repay a gift which I myself
Received at others’ hands; for, though now old
Beyond the common life of man, I still
Remember them who loved me in my youth.
Both of them sleep together: h

If from the public way you turn your steps
Up the tumultuous brook of Green-head Gill,
You will suppose that with an upright path
Your feet must struggle; in such bold ascent
The pastoral Mountains front you, face to face.
But, courage! for beside that boisterous Brook
The mountains have all open'd out themselves,
And made a hidden valley of their own.

No habitation there is seen; but such
As journey thither find themselves alone
With a few sheep, with rocks and stones, and kites
That overhead are sailing in the sky.
It is in truth an utter solitude,
Nor should I have made mention of this Dell
But for one object which you might pass by,
Might see and notice not. Beside the brook
There is a straggling heap of unhewn stones!
And to that place a story appertains,
Which, though it be ungarnish'd with events,
Is not unfit, I deem, for the fire-side,
Or for the summer shade. It was the first,
The earliest of those tales that spake to me
Of Shepherds, dwellers in the vallies, men
Whom I already lov'd, not verily
For their own sakes, but for the fields and hills
Where was their occupation and abode.

And hence this Tale, while I was yet a boy
Careless of books, yet having felt the power
Of Nature, by the gentle agency
Of natural objects led me on to feel
For passions that were not my own, and think
At random and imperfectly indeed
On man; the heart of man and human life.
Therefore, although it be a history
Homely and rude, I will relate the same
For the delight of a few natural hearts,
And with yet fonder feeling, for the sake
Of youthful Poets, who among these Hills
Will be my second self when I am gone.


Upon the Forest-side in Grasmere Vale
There dwelt a Shepherd, Michael was his name.
An old man, stout of heart, and strong of limb.
His ****** frame had been from youth to age
Of an unusual strength: his mind was keen
Intense and frugal, apt for all affairs,
And in his Shepherd's calling he was prompt
And watchful more than ordinary men.

Hence he had learn'd the meaning of all winds,
Of blasts of every tone, and often-times
When others heeded not, He heard the South
Make subterraneous music, like the noise
Of Bagpipers on distant Highland hills;
The Shepherd, at such warning, of his flock
Bethought him, and he to himself would say
The winds are now devising work for me!

And truly at all times the storm, that drives
The Traveller to a shelter, summon'd him
Up to the mountains: he had been alone
Amid the heart of many thousand mists
That came to him and left him on the heights.
So liv'd he till his eightieth year was pass'd.

And grossly that man errs, who should suppose
That the green Valleys, and the Streams and Rocks
Were things indifferent to the Shepherd's thoughts.
Fields, where with chearful spirits he had breath'd
The common air; the hills, which he so oft
Had climb'd with vigorous steps; which had impress'd
So many incidents upon his mind
Of hardship, skill or courage, joy or fear;
Which like a book preserv'd the memory
Of the dumb animals, whom he had sav'd,
Had fed or shelter'd, linking to such acts,
So grateful in themselves, the certainty
Of honorable gains; these fields, these hills
Which were his living Being, even more
Than his own Blood--what could they less? had laid
Strong hold on his affections, were to him
A pleasurable feeling of blind love,
The pleasure which there is in life itself.

He had not passed his days in singleness.
He had a Wife, a comely Matron, old
Though younger than himself full twenty years.
She was a woman of a stirring life
Whose heart was in her house: two wheels she had
Of antique form, this large for spinning wool,
That small for flax, and if one wheel had rest,
It was because the other was at work.
The Pair had but one Inmate in their house,
An only Child, who had been born to them
When Michael telling o'er his years began
To deem that he was old, in Shepherd's phrase,
With one foot in the grave. This only son,
With two brave sheep dogs tried in many a storm.

The one of an inestimable worth,
Made all their Household. I may truly say,
That they were as a proverb in the vale
For endless industry. When day was gone,
And from their occupations out of doors
The Son and Father were come home, even then,
Their labour did not cease, unless when all
Turn'd to their cleanly supper-board, and there
Each with a mess of pottage and skimm'd milk,
Sate round their basket pil'd with oaten cakes,
And their plain home-made cheese. Yet when their meal
Was ended, LUKE (for so the Son was nam'd)
And his old Father, both betook themselves
To such convenient work, as might employ
Their hands by the fire-side; perhaps to card
Wool for the House-wife's spindle, or repair
Some injury done to sickle, flail, or scythe,
Or other implement of house or field.

Down from the cicling by the chimney's edge,
Which in our ancient uncouth country style
Did with a huge projection overbrow
Large space beneath, as duly as the light
Of day grew dim, the House-wife hung a lamp;
An aged utensil, which had perform'd
Service beyond all others of its kind.

Early at evening did it burn and late,
Surviving Comrade of uncounted Hours
Which going by from year to year had found
And left the Couple neither gay perhaps
Nor chearful, yet with objects and with hopes
Living a life of eager industry.

And now, when LUKE was in his eighteenth year,
There by the light of this old lamp they sate,
Father and Son, while late into the night
The House-wife plied her own peculiar work,
Making the cottage thro' the silent hours
Murmur as with the sound of summer flies.

Not with a waste of words, but for the sake
Of pleasure, which I know that I shall give
To many living now, I of this Lamp
Speak thus minutely: for there are no few
Whose memories will bear witness to my tale,
The Light was famous in its neighbourhood,
And was a public Symbol of the life,
The thrifty Pair had liv'd. For, as it chanc'd,
Their Cottage on a plot of rising ground
Stood single, with large prospect North and South,
High into Easedale, up to Dunmal-Raise,
And Westward to the village near the Lake.
And from this constant light so regular
And so far seen, the House itself by all
Who dwelt within the limits of the vale,
Both old and young, was nam'd The Evening Star.

Thus living on through such a length of years,
The Shepherd, if he lov'd himself, must needs
Have lov'd his Help-mate; but to Michael's heart
This Son of his old age was yet more dear--
Effect which might perhaps have been produc'd
By that instinctive tenderness, the same
Blind Spirit, which is in the blood of all,
Or that a child, more than all other gifts,
Brings hope with it, and forward-looking thoughts,
And stirrings of inquietude, when they
By tendency of nature needs must fail.

From such, and other causes, to the thoughts
Of the old Man his only Son was now
The dearest object that he knew on earth.
Exceeding was the love he bare to him,
His Heart and his Heart's joy! For oftentimes
Old Michael, while he was a babe in arms,
Had done him female service, not alone
For dalliance and delight, as is the use
Of Fathers, but with patient mind enforc'd
To acts of tenderness; and he had rock'd
His cradle with a woman's gentle hand.

And in a later time, ere yet the Boy
Had put on Boy's attire, did Michael love,
Albeit of a stern unbending mind,
To have the young one in his sight, when he
Had work by his own door, or when he sate
With sheep before him on his Shepherd's stool,
Beneath that large old Oak, which near their door
Stood, and from it's enormous breadth of shade
Chosen for the Shearer's covert from the sun,
Thence in our rustic dialect was call'd
The CLIPPING TREE, *[1] a name which yet it bears.

There, while they two were sitting in the shade,
With others round them, earnest all and blithe,
Would Michael exercise his heart with looks
Of fond correction and reproof bestow'd
Upon the child, if he dislurb'd the sheep
By catching at their legs, or with his shouts
Scar'd them, while they lay still beneath the shears.

And when by Heaven's good grace the Boy grew up
A healthy Lad, and carried in his cheek
Two steady roses that were five years old,
Then Michael from a winter coppice cut
With his own hand a sapling, which he hoop'd
With iron, making it throughout in all
Due requisites a perfect Shepherd's Staff,
And gave it to the Boy; wherewith equipp'd
He as a Watchman oftentimes was plac'd
At gate or gap, to stem or turn the flock,
And to his office prematurely call'd
There stood the urchin, as you will divine,
Something between a hindrance and a help,
And for this cause not always, I believe,
Receiving from his Father hire of praise.

While this good household thus were living on
From day to day, to Michael's ear there came
Distressful tidings. Long before, the time
Of which I speak, the Shepherd had been bound
In surety for his Brother's Son, a man
Of an industrious life, and ample means,
But unforeseen misfortunes suddenly
Had press'd upon him, and old Michael now
Was summon'd to discharge the forfeiture,
A grievous penalty, but little less
Than half his substance. This un-look'd-for claim
At the first hearing, for a moment took
More hope out of his life than he supposed
That any old man ever could have lost.

As soon as he had gather'd so much strength
That he could look his trouble in the face,
It seem'd that his sole refuge was to sell
A portion of his patrimonial fields.
Such was his first resolve; he thought again,
And his heart fail'd him. "Isabel," said he,
Two evenings after he had heard the news,
"I have been toiling more than seventy years,
And in the open sun-shine of God's love
Have we all liv'd, yet if these fields of ours
Should pass into a Stranger's hand, I think
That I could not lie quiet in my grave."

"Our lot is a hard lot; the Sun itself
Has scarcely been more diligent than I,
And I have liv'd to be a fool at last
To my own family. An evil Man
That was, and made an evil choice, if he
Were false to us; and if he were not false,
There are ten thousand to whom loss like this
Had been no sorrow. I forgive him--but
'Twere better to be dumb than to talk thus.
When I began, my purpose was to speak
Of remedies and of a chearful hope."

"Our Luke shall leave us, Isabel; the land
Shall not go from us, and it shall be free,
He shall possess it, free as is the wind
That passes over it. We have, thou knowest,
Another Kinsman, he will be our friend
In this distress. He is a prosperous man,
Thriving in trade, and Luke to him shall go,
And with his Kinsman's help and his own thrift,
He quickly will repair this loss, and then
May come again to us. If here he stay,
What can be done? Where every one is poor
What can be gain'd?" At this, the old man paus'd,
And Isabel sate silent, for her mind
Was busy, looking back into past times.

There's Richard Bateman, thought she to herself,
He was a parish-boy--at the church-door
They made a gathering for him, shillings, pence,
And halfpennies, wherewith the Neighbours bought
A Basket, which they fill'd with Pedlar's wares,
And with this Basket on his arm, the Lad
Went up to London, found a Master there,
Who out of many chose the trusty Boy
To go and overlook his merchandise
Beyond the seas, where he grew wond'rous rich,
And left estates and monies to the poor,
And at his birth-place built a Chapel, floor'd
With Marble, which he sent from foreign lands.
These thoughts, and many others of like sort,
Pass'd quickly thro' the mind of Isabel,
And her face brighten'd. The Old Man was glad.

And thus resum'd. "Well I Isabel, this scheme
These two days has been meat and drink to me.
Far more than we have lost is left us yet.
--We have enough--I wish indeed that I
Were younger, but this hope is a good hope.
--Make ready Luke's best garments, of the best
Buy for him more, and let us send him forth
To-morrow, or the next day, or to-night:
--If he could go, the Boy should go to-night."
Here Michael ceas'd, and to the fields went forth
With a light heart. The House-wife for five days
Was restless morn and night, and all day long
Wrought on with her best fingers to prepare
Things needful for the journey of her Son.

But Isabel was glad when Sunday came
To stop her in her work; for, when she lay
By Michael's side, she for the two last nights
Heard him, how he was troubled in his sleep:
And when they rose at morning she could see
That all his hopes were gone. That day at noon
She said to Luke, while they two by themselves
Were sitting at the door, "Thou must not go,
We have no other Child but thee to lose,
None to remember--do not go away,
For if thou leave thy Father he will die."
The Lad made answer with a jocund voice,
And Isabel, when she had told her fears,
Recover'd heart. That evening her best fare
Did she bring forth, and all together sate
Like happy people round a Christmas fire.

Next morning Isabel resum'd her work,
And all the ensuing week the house appear'd
As cheerful as a grove in Spring: at length
The expected letter from their Kinsman came,
With kind assurances that he would do
His utmost for the welfare of the Boy,
To which requests were added that forthwith
He might be sent to him. Ten times or more
The letter was read over; Isabel
Went forth to shew it to the neighbours round:
Nor was there at that time on English Land
A prouder heart than Luke's. When Isabel
Had to her house return'd, the Old Man said,
"He shall depart to-morrow." To this word
The House--wife answered, talking much of things
Which, if at such, short notice he should go,
Would surely be forgotten. But at length
She gave consent, and Michael was at ease.

Near the tumultuous brook of Green-head Gill,
In that deep Valley, Michael had design'd
To build a Sheep-fold, and, before he heard
The tidings of his melancholy loss,
For this same purpose he had gathered up
A heap of stones, which close to the brook side
Lay thrown together, ready for the work.
With Luke that evening thitherward he walk'd;
And soon as they had reach'd the place he stopp'd,
And thus the Old Man spake to him. "My Son,
To-morrow thou wilt leave me; with full heart
I look upon thee, for thou art the same
That wert a promise to me ere thy birth,
And all thy life hast been my daily joy.
I will relate to thee some little part
Of our two histories; 'twill do thee good
When thou art from me, even if I should speak
Of things thou caust not know of.--After thou
First cam'st into the world, as it befalls
To new-born infants, thou didst sleep away
Two days, and blessings from thy Father's tongue
Then fell upon thee. Day by day pass'd on,
And still I lov'd thee with encreasing love."

Never to living ear came sweeter sounds
Than when I heard thee by our own fire-side
First uttering without words a natural tune,
When thou, a feeding babe, didst in thy joy
Sing at thy Mother's breast. Month follow'd month,
And in the open fields my life was pass'd
And in the mountains, else I think that thou
Hadst been brought up upon thy father's knees.
--But we were playmates, Luke; among these hills,
As well thou know'st, in us the old and young
Have play'd together, nor with me didst thou
Lack any pleasure which a boy can know.

Luke had a manly heart; but at these words
He sobb'd aloud; the Old Man grasp'd his hand,
And said, "Nay do not take it so--I see
That these are things of which I need not speak.
--Even to the utmost I have been to thee
A kind and a good Father: and herein
I but repay a gift which I myself
Receiv'd at others' hands, for, though now old
Beyond the common life of man, I still
Remember them who lov'd me in my youth."

Both of them sleep together: here they liv'd
As all their Forefathers had done, and when
At length their time was come, they were not loth
To give their bodies to the family mold.
I wish'd that thou should'st live the life they liv'd.
But 'tis a long time to look back, my Son,
And see so little gain from sixty years.
These fields were burthen'd when they came to me;
'Till I was forty years of age, not more
Than half of my inheritance was mine.

"I toil'd and toil'd; God bless'd me in my work,
And 'till these three weeks past the land was free.
--It looks as if it never could endure
Another Master. Heaven forgive me, Luke,
If I judge ill for thee, but it seems good
That thou should'st go." At this the Old Man paus'd,
Then, pointing to the Stones near which they stood,
Thus, after a short silence, he resum'd:
"This was a work for us, and now, my Son,
It is a wo

1087

We miss a Kinsman more
When warranted to see
Than when withheld of Oceans
From possibility

A Furlong than a League
Inflicts a pricklier pain,
Till We, who smiled at Pyrenees—
Of Parishes, complain.

1334

How soft this Prison is
How sweet these sullen bars
No Despot but the King of Down
Invented this repose

Of Fate if this is All
Has he no added Realm
A Dungeon but a Kinsman is
Incarceration—Home.

380

There is a flower that Bees prefer—
And Butterflies—desire—
To gain the Purple Democrat
The Humming Bird—aspire—

And Whatsoever Insect pass—
A Honey bear away
Proportioned to his several dearth
And her—capacity—

Her face be rounder than the Moon
And ruddier than the Gown
Or Orchis in the Pasture—
Or Rhododendron—worn—

She doth not wait for June—
Before the World be Green—
Her sturdy little Countenance
Against the Wind—be seen—

Contending with the Grass—
Near Kinsman to Herself—
For Privilege of Sod and Sun—
Sweet Litigants for Life—

And when the Hills be full—
And newer fashions blow—
Doth not retract a single spice
For pang of jealousy—

Her Public—be the Noon—
Her Providence—the Sun—
Her Progress—by the Bee—proclaimed—
In sovereign—Swerveless Tune—

The Bravest—of the Host—
Surrendering—the last—
Nor even of Defeat—aware—
What cancelled by the Frost—

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.


~Edgar Allan Poe

But when we try to Seek what has been Sought
Of so many Globes those White Hats confound
And Paradox bears its own Hard-Deal, fought
That Tripe Sanity so many will count
A Useless Journey, I say; You Agree
Since Fifteen Thousand Miles we are apart
No Threatened Worries; And then you are Free
To Tally my Charges and Tear me Apart
As what your Kinsman calls the Chicken-Hawk,
A Heresy Grave I will sure Attack
As my Film's intent is never to Gawk
But revive the Toddler's Fresh Friendship back.
If so, then the Informant says he lies
That, by Discount, our Age by Time soon dies.

312

Her—”last Poems”—
Poets—ended—
Silver—perished—with her Tongue—
Not on Record—bubbled other,
Flute—or Woman—
So divine—
Not unto its Summer—Morning
Robin—uttered Half the Tune—
Gushed too free for the Adoring—
From the Anglo-Florentine—
Late—the Praise—
’Tis dull—conferring
On the Head too High to Crown—
Diadem—or Ducal Showing—
Be its Grave—sufficient sign—
Nought—that We—No Poet’s Kinsman—
Suffocate—with easy woe—
What, and if, Ourself a Bridegroom—
Put Her down—in Italy?

To lands unimagined we must make our course,
For a tale beyond compare awaits thee there,
Of a hero this world has long forgotten.
Petrarchus was his name, warrior of renown,
Son of the king, and heir to the crown,
A warrior hailed by all the grateful land,
For great was his skill, and powerful his hand.
A legend there was in the empire of old,
Of a realm far beyond the sands of Morthros,
The Land of Paradise, full of palaces and gardens
Beyond imagination of mortal man.
The Gods of heaven in that land resided,
And wide and lofty were it's spires and towers;
That sacred home to the immortal powers
Lay across the yawning Chasm of Death.
To reach this land was Petrarchus' desire,
And fierce was his will, unquenchable his fire;
And it passed that unaided by kinsman or friend,
He travell'd forth to attain his journey's end.
A ship he made of timber strong,
And all it's cords and sails he tied;
Out into the Seas of Gloom he sail'd,
Dauntless into the jaws of the unknown.
But fate! merciless judge, had destin'd him sorrow,
And threw great hurdles along his darksome way;
Through storm and calm he sail'd into the morrow,
Meeting each trial with intrepid face.
Then before the vessel  vile Luxuria rose,
The oldest Titan, in form a Gorgon,
That mock'd at the hero and his worthless errand.
Undeterr'd, to Luxuria Petrarchus cried;
"Why com'st thou here, O fiend of the sea?
Forsake not thy lair to thus hinder me;
Learn, foul monster, my blade to fear,
For this mortal steel may end thy life so dear."
At this the Titan laugh'd, and changed her shape
Into the form of a voluptuous dame.
To the hero she spread her welcoming arms,
And he falter'd against her alluring charms.
There on the seas his mighty mind was sway'd,
And by tide of Desire a man was unmade.
O, most inglorious sight! The master turn'd to slave,
On the edge of the vessel, his hand outstretch'd,
All hold of reason relinquish'd like shackles.
That day had disslov'd Petrarchus' name
Among the thousands that fell to Lust's great spell,
And a hero's glory reduced to poor shame,
No deeds then done that this tale should tell.
But heaven beheld, and a peal of lightning
Shot forth like an unearthly ray o'er the foam,
The seething waves turn'd pallid white
In dread of the wrath of Heaven's sire.
And by the booming sound that echoed in the skies,
Petrarchus awaken'd, and casting off his spell,
He drew his blade, and Luxuria fell.
Alas! that the pestilence of her wickedness
Had ended there in that fateful hour!
But  her body's blood, as black as night,
Issuing from the **** of her bleeding neck,
Swept forth like an all-consuming cloud,
Enveloping the seas in a shadowed shroud.
'Twas the very essence of Sin, that worked in the blood,
The defilement that envenom'd the warrior's heart,
As he drew in the blackness with his heaving breath.
As the spider's venom with cunning doth pierce,
So she made frail who had been so fierce.
Like a phantom in a dream he sail'd now ahead,
Barely alive, and more than half dead,
Across the arid isles of nighted Invidius;
And came at last, a batter'd man
To the endless waste of horrid Morthros;
The first of mortal line those seas to cross,
The Chasm of Death to obtain.
And sudden in the grime a Chalice appeared,
The Goblet of Gula, whose heady draught
Makes thirst so great that pain seems naught.
Like lowly beast the warrior had become,
And casting off his sword and shining shield,
The mail that was a burden on his sweating breast,
Naked and horrible, he clawed to the Cup
And raised his thirsty lips to drink of the draught.
And suddenly a terrible tremor moved the earth,
And lo! 'twas earth no more, but abyss profound,
Black and gaping, the Chasm of Death.
For eternity of time he fell through the blackness,
Crying in craven fear, lost in nameless dread,
And came at last to the Bottom, hard and lifeless.
Ah most terrible fate, to have one's tomb
In the lightless reaches of the mouth of the earth.
And had Petrarchus ended? Had the terrible fall
Through leagues of despair destroyed him?
Nay, for this was the greatest atonement,
To be alive without purpose, to decay in darkness,
To live alone, far from life and love;
Eternally scalded by the unending coldness,
Cowering 'neath the mocking leer of Fate.
Then came a greater, more terrible awakening,
For 'twas now he saw the Legion of Undead
Glowering in the filth, a horde of blood-red eyes,
Unblinking, that knew only to fear and despise.
In that Inferno of eyes ever staring in the gloam,
The hero languish'd for what seem'd an age.
But then, heaven! thy aid was sent,
And by divine power the blackness was rent
By light, and the voice of Providence spake:
"Be bold, brave knight, for thy own sake,
Heaven did not decree the path that thou hast chosen;
Thou shalt rise where none before have risen;
Re-arm thy heart, stand up on thy feet,
Cowards are they that submit to defeat.
Turn thy eyes above! Dost thou not see?
The void thou hast created had never been!
The Chasm is only for the weak of heart,
A prison of minds that by minds was made.
Wake up thy blood, braveheart! Thou art not lost,
The prize shall be thine, though great the cost.
Pierce with sword of will the veil of night,
And behold! The world is blinded with light!"
Thus spake the Voice, and the world was restor'd,
The sands of Morthros as barren as before.
But where he had seen darkness, the hero now saw hope,
For the flame of the Gods was raging in his heart,
Relentless he walk'd through the swathe of gloom,
Petrarchus who was saved from eternal doom.
The mortal came at last to Paradise sublime,
Abode of grandeur and all things divine!
As a man whelm'd by wonder he trod
Through it's rich marble halls and ethereal gardens,
Drinking in the balmy scent of blooms
Not found in any land but where the immortals reside.
And then the mighty hall of Helios was there!
Firm as a mountain, and alight with wondrous flare!
High on the throne, above all the stately gods,
Repos'd Helios, monarch of immortals.
Emitting rays and beams of blinding power,
The refulgent king rose from his sacred seat,
And rais'd his golden sceptre, in cordial greeting
To the first wayfarer from the mortal world.
"Noble Petrarchus," said he, "across the Seas of Gloom
and the Chasm of Death thou hast made thy way
To this Hesperius, Garden of Gods.
To thee this honour eternal was given,
Thou alone by Destiny's call wert driven,
For man like to thee on this globe there is none,
Nor worthier soul to brave what thou hast done.
To wander in our blessed halls and glory at our pride,
Shall be thy just reward, if thou shalt decide.
What say'st thou, O matchless of mortals?"
But the man to whom he spoke was not the hero of old,
For He had been destroyed in the Chasm of Death;
Unfetter'd by desire, like a God in form he stood,
With wisdom beyond measure of living mortal man.
And there in the halls of Hesperius was born
Petrarchus the Prophet, Star of the Pole.
With humble grace the sage then spoke,
"Gracious is thy will, O eternal king,
Whose praises no song of man can sing;
But if thou shalt grant, benevolent sire,
One, and one only, is my chief desire.
To be given endless life, and freedom to walk
The pleasant arbours and vales of Earth,
And preach to all men the greatness of the Gods;
This indeed I deem a task of worth.
If such be thy will, the very Seas of Gloom
Shall be new-forg'd into the Seas of Glory,
And the rays of Helios shall shine out afar,
Awaking a new morn and age of Reason.
But mine is the suit; 'tis thine to fulfil."
At this the God of Day let out a booming laugh,
The first heavenly display of Mirth ever seen;
The skies were new-brighten'd by a light of joy.
"So shall it be," to the Prophet said he,
and bade him wander whither he would,
Immortal emissary, scion of righteousness,
Harbinger of the dawn and new age of Man.
His task is done. And now he reposes, ever serene,
In the heart of Night's silken shades, a luminous star
Bright and wondrous above the Pole.

I have been walking
in a fairyland since my born
feeling high as always
wandering in a haven's garden
say you the fairy tale -
say you the way, you seeking peace
the pigeon flies on your sky
feel and touch its feather
the morning sun will be appear very soon
the red roses bloom in your garden
walking on soft dews,
feels you the haven
mild breeze twist with jasmine aroma
cool you and to be cooled your soul
and the last you see the truth
the starry sky,
again you will be fairy at night
where your highborn kinsman will be come
with him you will be danced within moonlit
in a fairyland -

@Musfiq us shaleheen

A screen was there
as high as me
and as broad.

And there he was
in front  of the screen,
lying in his rags.
His shirt must have been green,
when it used to cover his frailty.

His trousers were torn,
and hair wiry.
If it hadn’t been his placid sleep
and a black scar on his cheek,
he would be lost in generality.

But he was different.
He was a warrior,
who had just won over a city.
His armour impaired, body battered
to the extreme.

He must have been a kinsman
of the king.
As he wore the royal green
and carried a slender physique.
The dark stains on his lower
explained how he slaughtered the militaries
with his cavalry.
And yes, the scar.
The black scar outlined the final battles
with the mighty,
and long journey from the murky and dusty
land of atrocities.

Anyone with even a
slight fondness to fantasy
could ponder
into the warrior’s dreamless dreams
on the screen, that was
as high as me
and as broad.

Gudron graced many a viking's visions,
like a Helen or a Guenevere.
But no ray of light could be shone
on her four disturbing dreams.

Until one day a wise kinsman called,
a dream interpreter, who told her
that she would outlast four husbands.
His foretelling came to pass.

But she never wed the man she loved.
He set sail. Gudron remained.
Iceland's first christian nun.

Standing behind this shield wall,
On the battle ground.
Dusty and worn, wounded,
I wonder as I hold strong,
Next to my kinsman,
Will we win this battle?
Will I survive, using axe and muscle?
Slaughtering, killing, slowly advancing,
Taking my enemies' lives,
Is this worth the price of so many?
Is this honoring Odin?
One battleworn man, amongst many,
In this shieldwall, feeling
Time, heavy in the air, and mind wandering,
He considers the battles fought,
The rewards gained,
The kinsmen lost.................

Aged patina of ivory keys.

Chipped at the corners.
Black and white worn.

Still, as always,
able to coax beautiful notes
From willing keys.

To lighten the mood
or heighten suspense.
Notes tumbling one after another.

Each key, a single note.
When enchanted
able to suspend reality
in concert with its kinsman.

Mary's son is here and my, what a flutter!
Folk come from far and near, just to hear:
say some a Rabbi is he, others, the Christ;
quelling the ghosts, he turns water wine,
the dead walk back to life at his command.

Mary's son is here and my, what a flutter!
He's cast his glance wide, this humble
son of a carpenter, is too, a fisherman wise:
he pours forth his love, like none ever can,
to his disciples, he's a friend and kinsman.

Mary's son is here and my, what a flutter!
Where they see sin, he only sees the light,
and nothing can anger him but unholy
commerce in the temple right. Who'd have
thought, God's son, was thus in our sight?

Mary's son is here and my, what a flutter!

When love is all you need,
why not love me?
I am not your lover
Though I may be your only true friend
I am not your kinsman
Yet our flesh and blood mingle
I am not your hero
But I can be your worst of enemies
I am not your teacher
Though I can be worth listening to
I am not your God
Though I can be your idol

Who am I?

If love is all you need,
Why not love me?

I am you

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.


Edgar Allan Poe

Sleep, kinsman thou to death and trance
  And madness, thou hast forged at last
  A night-long Present of the Past
In which we went thro' summer France.

Hadst thou such credit with the soul?
  Then bring an ****** trebly strong,
  Drug down the blindfold sense of wrong
That so my pleasure may be whole;

While now we talk as once we talk'd
  Of men and minds, the dust of change,
  The days that grow to something strange,
In walking as of old we walk'd

Beside the river's wooded reach,
  The fortress, and the mountain ridge,
  The cataract flashing from the bridge,
The breaker breaking on the beach.

If I don't return let your sorrow for me pass like the wind on a winters day,
If I don't return wipe my mothers tears away,
If I don't return tell my sister her guardian will see her again some day,
If I don't return tell my father he was my hero,
If I don't return tell him I enjoyed my childhood with him on the seesaw,
If I don't return tell my kinsman I remember the days we rode together,
If I don't return tell my kinsman I would have followed them until the end, wherever,
If I don't return do not mourn,
If I don't return, smile, as I am not alone,
If I don't return be happy as I feel pain no more,
If I don't return celebrate life the way you did before,
If I don't return pray I spend the rest of my days with ease,
If I don't return pray for me so I may be in peace,
If I don't return tell them part of me wants to be back,
If I don't return ask them what if life could start from scratch,
If I don't return please don't live your life in haste,
If I don't return please don't let my memories go to waste,
If I don't return let them know I never felt this before,
If I don't return tell them to close the door,
If I don't return tell them don't look back anymore,

Aching, and angry and almost alive

Beaten, and battered and broken of bone

Callous, and cruel, and cruising off course

Deceived, and ******, and dealing with demons

Erected, and exploded, and eaten by erosion

Fractured, and fused, and falling to fast

Gaps, and gorgeous and glistening red gouges

Hellish, and harmful, and hurting my heart

Idiots, and idols, and invisible but insane

Justice and jolted and jade into jumping

Knights, and Kings, and killing of kinsman

Longing, and loathing, and living in lust

Media, and manipulation, and mind that's maddening

Nature, and night, and native in nothing

Opened, and ordered, obviously an orphan

Pungent, and putrid, and praying for perseverance

Quartered, and queued, and quietly is questioned

Rolling, and ready, and recently been released

Soulful, and sorry, and story of sorrow

Terrorist, and target, and
terrifying in truth

Unique, and united and using the universe

******, and victims, and validating the vice

Windows, and watching, weathering the winter

Xmas, and x-box, and
Xavier of X-Men

Yesterdays, and years, and yearning for youth

Zealous, and zones,
And zip of zero

On Tuesday, I had
the intention
to set the precedent

of doing the
the work for Class
promptly

And for that
I had
Tomorrow

But Tomorrow
    turned  
Into..

Up at Five AM
to climb
A Mountain (Kinsman a 4000 footer)

Then back at Three
to take
A Well earned Shower

Then out at Four
to see the group of
my Best Friends

For the first time (in quite some time)
And the last time
until Summer

Then back at One
To get some
Sleep



So, even though
Tomorrow turned
to Yesterday
And I didn’t
at all
do school work

So, this Morning
I hurriedly
write this
I can’t at all
Say it wasn’t
Worth it

I. Fasl al fasl

The Carvan has halted.
The grunting of camels.
The sand shines of moonlight.
And I remember you.
The bonfire is lit.
My kinsman have all gathered.
And yet lonely, I remember you.

I was the lonely moon,
And you the mirthful rain.
Your voice to my heart was so soothing,
And my life full of despair and pain.

II. Àl fasl min dhikraa

When I see the dancing fire,
I remember your radiant eyes.
When I drink the wine,
I remember your intoxicating words.
When I visit the perfume chamber,
I sense your presence around.

When I pick up the pen,
I remember the letters you wrote to me.
When I gaze around at the eternal sand,
I feel the emptiness of my life.

III. Àl fasl min aldaewa

I searched for you,
Through every oasis I passed.
Through every city I went to.
Through the olive groves.

I called for you,
Like man so insane.
Like the miser losing a diamond.
Like the parrot calling its mate.
Like a thirsty man crying for water.

IV. Àl fasl min alsala

Where should I go,
Whom should I pray to.
The night seems worthless,
And worthless are the days.
Tell me where should I go,
Name an abode so worthy.
For me it shall be heaven,
A chance to see you; my true salvation.

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
Edgar Allan Poe

I sit and await the highborn kinsman,
As I look below, I see only sorrow,
To purge myself from mourning cries,
To self obstruct I do abide,
The destruction of my skin shows my way to the end,
Dark shadows cast their way behind me,
Sadness seeps into my soul as I prepare my own sepulchre,
The demons among us sense my presence
Preparing the horrendous journey brought by the Angel of Death,
The demons,
the demons a motley they hide within us
Blood is shed
Battle scars last forever
But they still wont leave me alone,
The demons are at a war,
And the war is inside my head
They're calling me
Beckoning
I'm wanted on the battlefield
Prepare for bloodshed,
I am on the battle field,
It is strange,
There are many people here,
But I am the only one fighting,
Then the demons attack,
I feel their blades slashing me,
Everywhere,
But I keep going,
All I can think about is when these demons are gone,
Then I realize,
I can end it all,
But I keep going,
Slashing,
Bleeding.

I wonder if the Moon and the Sun
are so enamored with one another...
That if they were to both constantly appear in the sky,
neither would ever wish to set.

Or are they rather more like brother and sister?
Constantly vying for the spotlight
and for the attention of Mother Earth?

When the Moon appears in the sky of day,
does she wish to steal the show? 

Or simply long to see her lover,
before her kinsman arrive to settle in for nightfall,
joining hands to light up the sky
like a string of hundreds of thousands of chandeliers,
meticulously hung aloft the milky way?

Perhaps, the hues that bleed
across the stage at sunset,
are the spilled tears of the golden child.
Who must now cover her blushing face,
and bid adieu to the pearl
that ignites her life bearing flame.

There wasn’t a lot of the Castle left,
A couple of Towers, and Keep,
Most of the walls had fallen in
To a courtyard, full of sheep.
It stood up high on a Scottish hill
Now all enclosed by a farm,
But once there was always blue-blood there,
Brought in by its Highland charm.

It ruled all over the countryside
That it mastered, looking down,
Bolstered by the power of a Laird
With a royal court and a clown,
The Laird was a noble, Ralph McClair,
And his wife, a Lady Ann,
A beauty brought from the Western Isles
But from quite a different clan.

The clown was a kinsman, Rod McBain
Who’d been held from a local feud,
At court he’d been made to entertain
For the peace that his kinsmen sued.
They never ceased to humiliate
McBain for his royal blood,
And dressed him in bells and motley there,
Simply because they could.

From what one knows, as the story goes
When McClair rode far and wide,
Taxing the poorest peasants there
For the sake of his royal pride,
It came one day he returned, they say,
To discover his Lady Ann,
In flagrante delicto in
The arms of a naked man.

The man just happened to be McBain
Who was seized, and his features spoiled,
They ripped the flesh from his back and dropped
Him into a cask of oil,
The oil was heated to boiling point
Till his screams rang out, and loud,
While she was naked, paraded there
In front of the courtyard crowd.

His screams and cries and the lady’s sighs
Ate into the castle walls,
And that they say is the only way
To explain the stonework falls,
A fungus grew in the mortar there
And destroyed the Castle McClair,
And as I say, if you go today
You will see the result right there.

For up on that distant Scottish height
You will see the remains of love,
Especially when the Northern Lights
Light up the sky from above,
For stones still fall from the Towers and Keep,
At night, and in winter rain,
And crash down into the courtyard, but
Sounding like screams of pain.

David Lewis Paget

Gather, children, near your beds
And listen.
Dim the lights so to your enemies
You don't glisten.
Below this stone, we keep at bay,
And hold them off another day.
We'll never give in.
They'll never win.

They are breaking through the walls of our house.
They're tearing down, tearing down, tearing down.
They are breaking through the walls of our house,
Masada. Masada.
Five minutes, five hours, five days, five months,
And Zealots keep the charge.
960 ways to say you can not have our souls.
Everything is burning but the food.
That we leave to God.
And here we came to God.
Here we came, Masada, came to God.
Here we came to God.
The rooms are burning.
We never could have been counted among your numbers.
Our children never could have been yours.
We never could have served.
And in your lives you'll see our strength.
You die in your defeat,
That is the ghost which echoes in your mind.




Hosted to the sky in this fortress,
God has given
And by God of sky above,
we have been chosen.
Because of might, Rome forces right,
But for all their platitudes and light,
They shall not win.
We'll never give in.

"Overthrow the righteous!," is our cry.
"Capitulation to the state, we'd rather die!"
We keep the soldiers in the Graben,
Now we make our plan.
We know what must be done.
We make our stand.
Our final stand.

Gather, children, at your father's feet,
And of the barley, eat.
Our classmate top this thombroid shall not
Allow for our defeat.
Like a rapacious lion on the scent of blood,
Rome is calling, killing,
Falling many of our kinsman.
Sleep and wake with God,
And with the Great Herod.
The shall not win.
We never gave in.

"Overthrow the righteous!," is our cry.
"Capitulation to the state, we'd rather die!"
We keep the soldiers in the Graben,
Now we make our plan.
We know what must be done.
We make our stand.
Our final stand.

We hear the thunder cracking.
God will rip the sky.
God will set a plague upon them.
Sleep now, stand with I.
Have no fear, He waits Beyond.
Read is not our Kingdom,
Beersheba not our home.
God will comfort, for He guides us.
God, and God alone.
We now not to Rome.
No, Never to Rome.
We'll never give in.
We shall not will.

"Overthrow the righteous!," is our cry.
"Capitulation to the state, we'd rather die!"
We keep the soldiers in the Graben,
Now we make our plan.
We know what must be done.
We make our stand.
Our final stand.

Every poet is my ink brother
and every poetess is my ink sister.
I'm interconnected with their stories,
and therefore rejoice in their glories.

Every poet is my own kinsman,
Every poetess is my kinswoman.
We share the dark ink blood
and our lines flow like a mighty flood.

Every poet is the pretty boy of the ink family
and every poetess is a slay queen against ugly.
She embodies the essence of beauty
and her lines are the nectar of her sexuality.

Every poet is the ghost of Shakespeare
and every poetess is a lioness without fear.
Every poet and poetess is a foot soldier of poetry
assigned the tasks of securing God's creative pantry.

#IvanBrookspoetry©️
6.5.20