"parson" poems
Under a spreading chestnut-tree
The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.
His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate’er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.
Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.
And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.
He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter’s voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.
It sounds to him like her mother’s voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.
Toiling,—rejoicing,—sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night’s repose.
Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.
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O what is that sound which so thrills the ear
Down in the valley drumming, drumming?
Only the scarlet soldiers, dear,
The soldiers coming.
O what is that light I see flashing so clear
Over the distance brightly, brightly?
Only the sun on their weapons, dear,
As they step lightly.
O what are they doing with all that gear,
What are they doing this morning, morning?
Only their usual manoeuvres, dear,
Or perhaps a warning.
O why have they left the road down there,
Why are they suddenly wheeling, wheeling?
Perhaps a change in their orders, dear,
Why are you kneeling?
O haven't they stopped for the doctor's care,
Haven't they reined their horses, horses?
Why, they are none of them wounded, dear,
None of these forces.
O is it the parson they want, with white hair,
Is it the parson, is it, is it?
No, they are passing his gateway, dear,
Without a visit.
O it must be the farmer that lives so near.
It must be the farmer so cunning, so cunning?
They have passed the farmyard already, dear,
And now they are running.
O where are you going? Stay with me here!
Were the vows you swore deceiving, deceiving?
No, I promised to love you, dear,
But I must be leaving.
O it's broken the lock and splintered the door,
O it's the gate where they're turning, turning;
Their boots are heavy on the floor
And their eyes are burning.
4.2k
If you wake at midnight, and hear a horse’s feet,
Don’t go drawing back the blind, or looking in the street.
Them that ask no questions isn’t told a lie.
Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!
Five and twenty ponies,
Trotting through the dark—
Brandy for the Parson,
‘Baccy for the Clerk;
Laces for a lady, letters for a spy,
And watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!
Running round the woodlump if you chance to find
Little barrels, roped and tarred, all full of brandy-wine,
Don’t you shout to come and look, nor use ’em for your play.
Put the brishwood back again—and they’ll be gone next day!
If you see the stable-door setting open wide;
If you see a tired horse lying down inside;
If your mother mends a coat cut about and tore;
If the lining’s wet and warm—don’t you ask no more!
If you meet King George’s men, dressed in blue and red,
You be carefull what you say, and mindful what is said.
If they call you “pretty maid,” and chuck you ’neath the chin,
Don’t you tell where no one is, nor yet where no one’s been!
Knocks and footsteps round the house—whistles after dark—
You’ve no call for running out till the house-dogs bark.
Trusty’s here, and Pincher’s here, and see how dumb they lie—
They don’t fret to follow when the Gentlemen go by!
If you do as you’ve been told, ‘likely there’s a chance,
You’ll be given a dainty doll, all the way from France,
With a cap of Valenciennes, and a velvet hood—
A present from the Gentlemen, along o’ being good!
Five and twenty ponies,
Trotting through the dark—
Brandy for the Parson,
‘Baccy for the Clerk;
Them that asks no questions isn’t told a lie—
Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen bo by!
3.3k
Once of a bride was I by a belle informed;
Who, on the very night of their honeymoon
Upon sighting her groom's dower, screamed
And would not let him in for his ***** boon,
Until she's taken thru the script the following
Morn by her parson's wife in cool counselling.
Many things in morals and etiquette do
Parents their children ever and anon teach
Except on this single unfolding issue
Will they falter to them plainly preach:
The act of marriage in its detailed image,
Cause it's found nay on their nurturing page.
An African mother will quiver her girl to lecture,
For instance, in the subject under review,
But will leave it to the Omniscient Nature
To instruct her like cry to a curlew.
So the bride's mom will not to her say:
This is how you should roll in the hay.
Neither will a father his son likewise tell
Explicitly of this duty--this too I know--
How to make his led-to-the-altar angel
Fly on cloud nine during their maiden show.
My pa never me of this nuptial scene told,
How in bed my lady I should stylishly hold.
Yet instinct, that great ancient teacher,
The green Adam and ****** Eve taught
On man's debut moment of ecstasy ever,
And did lead him to her piquant spot,
Whilst one another they caressed for affection,
Premiering for all couples conjugal copulation.
And the animals who do not the wisdom
Of man have, even every diminutive creature,
How each by divine smarts in their kingdom--
Like the fish in the sea of their rapture--
Do with themselves mate with none
Giving them tutorials nor showing them ****
To close this up where it had first started:
The *iyawo after the pending deed was done,
As it should betwixt man and wife, delighted
Was and with glowing warmth did thence burn
In the hearth of her *ókò with ultra joy,
Who at the beginning of performance was coy.
Nov 28, 2011
Nov 28, 2011 at 4:43 AM UTC
Dear Mother, dear Mother, the Church is cold,
But the Ale-house is healthy & pleasant & warm:
Besides I can tell where I am use’d well,
Such usage in heaven will never do well.
But if at the Church they would give us some Ale.
And a pleasant fire, our souls to regale:
We’d sing and we’d pray all the live-long day:
Nor ever once wish from the Church to stray.
Then the Parson might preach & drink & sing.
And we’d be as happy as birds in the spring:
And modest dame Lurch, who is always at Church
Would not have bandy children nor fasting nor birch
And God like a father rejoicing to see.
His children as pleasant and happy as he:
Would have no more quarrel with the Devil or the Barrel
But kiss him & give him both drink and apparel.
3k
Out on the marsh on a lonely night
The wind soughs through his rags,
The hat that’s pinned to his painted face,
Flutters and soars, then sags,
His eyes are wide and his mouth is grim
As an owl is put to flight,
And nothing but shadows will venture there
For the Scarecrow rules the night.
And back in the manse in a window seat
The Parson’s daughter sits,
She stares at the fluttering coat-tails, but
In truth, is scared to bits,
She watches the sails of the windmill turn
And creak and groan in the gloom,
As clouds come stuttering over the marsh
In the rays of a Harvest Moon.
The father is out in the donkey cart
To tend to his aging flock,
He’s left Elizabeth waiting there
By the tick of the hallway clock,
But out on the moors and beyond the marsh
There rides one Highway Jack,
A frock coat topped with a bunch of lace
And a gold trimmed tricorne hat.
He’s whipped the horse to a lather
In a retreat from a new affray,
For the magistrates have gathered
Vowing to ride him down that day,
The redcoats wait in the village Inn
For the sound that they know too well,
When the curate sees the approaching horse
He’s to toll the old church bell.
But the curate lies in a drunken fit
On the floor of the old church nave,
And soon, by matins his soul will flit
From life to an early grave,
Elizabeth sits in the window seat
And thinks of the coin and plate,
As the highwayman dismounts, and ties
His horse to the manse’s gate.
He beats on the door, ‘Please let me in,
I’m weary and faint, that’s all.
I wouldn’t abuse your person, but
I fear my back’s to the wall.’
She leaves the seat and she slides the bar
For bracing the oaken door,
‘I dare not, sir, I fear for my life,
You’re safer out on the moor!’
Their voices echo across the marsh
Like fear, distilled in the night,
And something shudders out in the gloom
And lurches to left and right,
It seems forever, but now a sound
Tolls out, like a final knell,
For something, out in the church tonight,
Is tolling the steeple bell.
He barely makes it back to his horse
When the redcoats stand in line,
Their muskets fire a volley of shot
And his coat turns red, like wine.
They go to the church when the deed is done
To say, ‘You have done well!’
But the curate lies on the cold stone floor,
The Scarecrow tolled the bell!
David Lewis Paget
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 10:30 PM UTC
That night your great guns, unawares,
Shook all our coffins as we lay,
And broke the chancel window-squares,
We thought it was the Judgement-day
And sat upright. While drearisome
Arose the howl of wakened hounds:
The mouse let fall the altar-crumb,
The worm drew back into the mounds,
The glebe cow drooled. Till God cried, “No;
It’s gunnery practice out at sea
Just as before you went below;
The world is as it used to be:
“All nations striving strong to make
Red war yet redder. Mad as hatters
They do no more for Christés sake
Than you who are helpless in such matters.
“That this is not the judgment-hour
For some of them’s a blessed thing,
For if it were they’d have to scour
Hell’s floor for so much threatening. . . .
“Ha, ha. It will be warmer when
I blow the trumpet (if indeed
I ever do; for you are men,
And rest eternal sorely need).”
So down we lay again. “I wonder,
Will the world ever saner be,”
Said one, “than when He sent us under
In our indifferent century!”
And many a skeleton shook his head.
“Instead of preaching forty year,”
My neighbour Parson Thirdly said,
“I wish I had stuck to pipes and beer.”
Again the guns disturbed the hour,
Roaring their readiness to avenge,
As far inland as Stourton Tower,
And Camelot, and starlit Stonehenge.
2.5k
and the parson
on the village green
greets the people
and blesses them
with peaceful images
of an all encompassing
eternity
and the parson
senses in the shadows
ominous and deadly ...rumblings
masters of slavery
and lusted hatefilled afternoons
invading
his time and space
but he keeps on smiling
on the village green
for the souls of his people
must feel "the peace"
but then the WAR
comes to the village green
and the parson, in horror
sees the building flames
destroy the village
and the people
and the sense of
eternal peace
and the parson himself
and his faith
and now it has happened
to the village green
and the WAR itself
what did it mean?
NOTHING!
NOTHING BUT DESTRUCTION
to each and every thing
(and the parson
on the village green
greets the people
and blesses them
with peaceful images
of an all encompassing
eternity)
AMID THE WAR SONGS
AND THE FLAMES
Jul 24, 2010
Jul 24, 2010 at 1:23 PM UTC
When icicles hang by the wall,
And **** the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipp’d, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
To-whit!
To-who!—a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the ***
When all aloud the wind doe blow,
And coughing drowns the parson’s saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marian’s nose looks red and raw,
When roasted ***** hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
To-whit!
To-who!—a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the ***
2k
After Friday choir practice
in the church
after the other members
had gone to the vestry
to ready themselves for home
she stood in the darkened church
looking at the altar
and the high windows
where only moonlight
shone through
and she said to you
we’ll stand here one day
and get married maybe
and say our vows
and there will be
our families and friends
and the parson will say
kiss the bride and you will
and she smiled
and looked at you
standing in the quiet church
and you said
some years off maybe
we’re only fourteen
and still at school
and we’ve got to get pass
your mother yet
like trying to get a ball
by a fat goalie
who fills the net
but she just shook her head
and smiled and said
don’t be so negative
look on the positive side
look to the future
with bright eyes
and it seems strange now
and sad to look back
at that night
with you and she
standing in that aisle
in semi-dark
while outside
in the night sky
fate was working out
a different answer
where you
would marry others
and she would die
from cancer.
Mar 18, 2012
Mar 18, 2012 at 3:37 PM UTC
'Why did the lady in the lift
Slap that poor parson's face?'
Said Mother, thinking as she sniffed,
Of clerical disgrace.
Said Sonny Boy: 'Alas, I know.
My conscience doth accuse me;
The lady stood upon my toe,
Yet did not say--"Excuse me!"
'She hurt--and in that crowd confined
I scarcely could endure it;
So when I pinched her fat behind
She thought--it was the Curate.'
1.6k
I'm a tool pondering skyscapes.
Fondling a memory
Left behind
On sunset marquees.
It raced into the horizon like
A toad on the road.
A neon dream waving farewell.
Exploring mindsets:
An act in caressing
Bloodbath tesseracts.
A roundhouse rollercoaster,
Spinning at velocity of perfume
Hitting nasal perforations.
Core memories surface along spine cutlets,
No longer intrinsic
Doubt.
I'm settling for more.
Time is a moment
Too long to endure.
Hindsight is
A parson's lake passage;
A mad monster yet to be tamed;
A grain of salt to a fresh wound made;
Moments of grace from a fake great ape.
Blue morons slide
Into Mormon jovial footsteps.
Derided ice forestry into
King's cloaked ancestry.
A sad fisherman sailing
Ceaselessly out to sea.
And yet here I am
Talking to you,
Eyelight through obelisks
In hotbox barricades.
Hiding behind
A past of newspapers.
Headline reads 'ONLY DEVINE'
'TRADE REIGN WARNS JEWELS'
'PRINCE THREATENS ECONOMY
... AND CROWN.'
Wipe the frown,
Draw the sword.
Don't be ignored anymore.
Aug 22, 2017
Aug 22, 2017 at 5:17 PM UTC
From a little town in Iowa,
Came an average common lad
He’d accepted Christ as Savior,
‘cause he knew that he was bad.
But as he grew to manhood,
Walking with the Lord,
He knew that God had called him
To preach the Holy Word.
From his King James Bible,
He studied very hard,
Memorizing Scripture
And praying to the Lord.
He knew the time was coming,
Not very far away,
And wanted to be ready,
For preaching on that day.
Now listen to his message,
It’s true and it’s straight,
You’ve got to trust in Jesus,
To enter Heaven’s gate.
The best of men are sinners,
Says Romans three and ten,
And on their way to a devil’s hell,
Unless they’re born again.
Yes listen to the Preacher
From that Iowa town,
Listen to his message,
He’s preaching all around.
He calls you to the altar,
To repent of sin
So open up your heart’s door
Invite the Savior in.
(Revelation 3:20)
So come now ‘ol proud sinner
And humble your proud heart
Hear the Savior calling you,
From your pride depart.
The day of judgments coming
So kneel before the cross,
And trust in Christ as Savior
‘Er your soul is lost.
10/10/08
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 7:04 PM UTC
Who fell asleep in
her headphones plugged into
Abalone shells
a repeating sequence of ocean swells
on this frequency, smoke signals--
Don't touch that dial
While the land-locked
pulpit-boy's preaching denial;
Push up that skirt,
fashioned out of swans' feathers scattered
over the parson's house
It's hallowed ground you're jumbled upon
bleeding out oceans on the parish lawn.
Dec 6, 2011
Dec 6, 2011 at 8:40 PM UTC
A parson's wife I never thought I'd be,
Attending bazaars, pouring tea.
Not my style, woe is me.
One day Art awoke and said to me,
A minister I plan to be,
How good am I, follow me!
Oh God, I said, don't do this to me.
What did I ever do to thee?
I don't want this, why me?
God, surely you don't want me.
I'm going to fight, can't you see.
It's Art who's seen the light, not me.
Young and innocent I went.
To my fate I was sent,
On this adventure Art was bent.
Studying and learning, Art did work,
And in the background I did lurk.
Like a puppet I did ****
Raise six kids, scrimp and save,
Go to church, feel like a slave.
Don't rock the boat, here comes a wave!
Break the mold, do your own thing,
Said my conscience, on the wing.
Be yourself, fly and sing.
Belly dancing I took, to Art's delight.
A rebel in a bra, that was my fight!
I'd go but I'd kick and scratch and bite.
Stereotyped I would never be.
A woman should be free
To be herself, like you and me.
Now I'm happy, I've found my life.
Here amongst the calm and strife,
I'm a parson's wife.
Jan 31, 2013
Jan 31, 2013 at 7:31 PM UTC
my life so fragmented
like these passing
highway lines
foot to floor
the coalescing neon
of this dark city -
a beautiful place
for a ceremony.
my best man
beneath the hood -
my most trusted, honored friend
assures me
that this ceremony
will be memorable,
it will be
the best thing i've
ever done.
i look down the aisle
and i can see her...
my beautiful bride
shimmering silver
along side the
pavement parson
waiting for our vows
dearly beloved
we are gathered here today
among the congregation
of shattered glass -
til death do us part
i do.
Aug 8, 2010
Aug 8, 2010 at 4:07 PM UTC
GRAMPA THE SOFT BALL PLAYER
………by Jerry Howarth
5/26/16
Grampa is a legend in the softball world
He was voted into the Softball Hall of Fame
When ever Grampa was scheduled to pitch
It broke the attendance record every game.
Grampa was a fast ball pitcher
For the Perry Baptist church team.
He was having fun, just messing around,
But with every game Grampa picked up steam.
He began to experiment releasing the ball,
making it curve left & right, drop and rise,
He even learned to make a slow pitch,
Making it difficult for the batter’s eyes
Grampa had a favorite trick he loved to play The crowd thought it was super great!
The ball started out fast then changed slow
“How slow did it get Grampa?” “So slow
the batter swung three times before it crossed the plate.
Well Grampa’s pitching became so well known
The major leagues began competing with many others,
Offering Grampa Millions of dollars.
Grampa developed a fast ball so fast that…
“How fast was it, Grampa Parson?”
It was so fast it was beyond measur’n.
Now Grampa had what he called his
Roller coaster pitch that no one could ever hit
It was such a crazy pitch, he had it patented
So no one else could copy and use it
Grampa was now playing on a professional team, making over a million bucks a year,
His agent made a deal for $20,000 a game
Every time he pitched a no hitter
Every game he played was a no hitter,
Thanks to his patented pitch
At $20,000.00 a game
Grampa was getting really, really rich!
But back to Grama’s special pitch,
It was greatly irritating to every batter
They were determined to knock that ball
Right down Gramp’s kooka-defrater
Hear the crowd yelling, whistling, and clapping
Coming up to bat is the world home run king!
Here it comes, that, fast, slow pitch
The home run king gives three mighty swings.
Three strikes an yer out, the rules of the game
It’s the first time in the history of soft ball fast pitch, that a batter strikes out on
just one pitch
This poem cannot end without a mention
About Grampa batting power
That’s right, Grampa hit a ball so hard,
It sailed about a thousand miles or so
It broke out a window in the Trump Tower.
YEAH It did! And broke Donald’s favorite champagne drinking glass.
Well this is enough humble bragging about
When Grampa G. E. Parson was a Grandson
And I hope the reading of this poem
Was a lot of fun !
-Grampa G.E. Parson
Jan 26, 2018
Jan 26, 2018 at 7:50 PM UTC
He sits with a stoic's resistance,
his son in the casket lies there.
No line of a tear mars his visage-
the man with the Thousand yard stare.
He sits in the front row of mourners,
His dear sobbing wife by his side
in silence he keeps his sad vigil
and stares up at Christ crucified.
The mourners pass by him in silence,
touch his hand or say meaningless words,
for his part he stares straight on through them
as if nothings felt, nothings heard.
The Parson commands us to silence
and struggles to lead us in prayer-
but half of the room has forgotten the words
like the man with the thousand yard stare
Death is my race's core competence
dealing with life, we're but fair,
but none living today keeps sorrow at bay
not the man with the thousand yard stare.
Jan 1, 2012
Jan 1, 2012 at 10:52 PM UTC
An unfortunate parson named Burch
Had a penchant for flatus in church.
This caused not a few
Who sat in his pew
To exodus in spiritual surch.
Dec 3, 2016
Dec 3, 2016 at 4:07 PM UTC
I guess the image I had was corrupted I never mentioned filibusted. A seething whit I couldn't match from a advisory who met her match. The prose the verse it all unspun to show what really was undone. So ****** off the parson said and go home to your Steele bed or find a den that warms you more and forget the pain that came before.
Oct 1, 2012
Oct 1, 2012 at 4:13 PM UTC
In the cold damp stairway
of the Tower I saw her:
Lady Jane
the nine days Queen.
Unperturbed
she walked right through me
heading for the Tower Green.
Escorted by an unseen Parson
to the block, likewise unseen,
Her translucent body
bends before it
Lady Jane, the nine Days Queen.
How many times, I wondered then
has this poor ghost played out this
Scene
bereft at once of crown and life
there upon the tower Green
Nov 20, 2011
Nov 20, 2011 at 12:22 AM UTC
On a mat of dust
I veered away
a Parson to my right
the paradigm of a point,
wouldn't we all like to be warm,
rhetorical declination
takes my data's worth.
Jan 17, 2013
Jan 17, 2013 at 1:19 PM UTC
Once you entered
Diddling’s small church
it cooled you both down
from the summer heat outside
Jane looked about her
she’d been here
many times before
but wanted to you show you
and let you feel
the coolness
and silence
and peacefulness
I came here first
as a child
she said
but more often at St Mary’s
at the other side
of the village
I wouldn’t have thought
any place could be
this quiet
you said
the church smelt
of flowers
and old plaster
some one had placed
a mixture of blooms
in the vase by the altar
she walked forward
her hand brushing
against the tops
of the wooden pews
on either side
one could get married here
she said
if you had few guests
and friends
you said
gazing at her dark hair
pulled tight
in a ponytail
tied with red ribbon
her light green dress
fitted loosely
her sandals held
her bare feet
maybe one wanted
few guests
maybe just a few witnesses
and the clergyman
she said softly
turning to look at you
her dark eyes
captured you
and held you fixed
for a few moments
one day perhaps
she said
doesn’t your father
come here?
you asked
occasionally if the need arises
she said
mostly he’s at
the other church
come and stand
at the front with me
she said
you walked towards her
watching her eyes
and her mouth
the lips slightly open
you stood next to her
at the altar end
the light coming through
the high windows above
she smelt of lavender
you could breathe it in
your head swayed with it
imagine us here
she said
pretend it’s our
wedding day
and we are here
and the pastor
and a couple of people
as witnesses
she held your hand
in hers
her warm flesh
her thumb
on the back
of your hand
stroking slowly
would we sing hymns?
you asked
yes two
she said
closing her eyes
and we’ll pretend
the ***** played
at the start
and finish
she added
she sniffed the air
and plenty of flowers
around us
and bridesmaids?
you said
she thought
in silence
for a few moments
yes two small girls
from the village
she said
her hand got warmer
the dampness
linked you
and who
will give you away?
you said
father of course
she said frowning
she opened her eyes
and looked at you
too many people
have come
she said
it crowds my mind
and dream
then let it just be us
and the parson
and two others
you said
she nodded and smiled
it’s good to pretend
and imagine
she said
maybe one day
it will be real
the sunlight played
and danced
upon the floor
at her feet
her thumb rubbed
deeper in to your skin
and you both walked
down the aisle
in silence again
outside
came sound
of warm summer rain.
Jul 6, 2013
Jul 6, 2013 at 2:32 PM UTC
Jane had climbed
the Downs with you
and had hardly spoken
on the tiring climb
along the dried up tracks
on the way up
and then at the top
standing beside you
she stared out across
the countryside
and said
you can see
where I live from here
and she pointed out
to the church down beneath
and you said
yes
and took in the church
and the house
where she lived
with the parson
and his wife
and tried to pick out
which bedroom was hers
and she said
I like it up here
away from the crowds
and nearer to God
and you studied her profile
and her hair
and the way she stood there
in that summer dress
and sandals
and with that youthfulness
and you wanted suddenly
to kiss her
and embrace her
but you didn’t
you just stood
and studied her profile
and moving closer
you reached out
your hand
and touched hers
and her hand was warm
and as you squeezed it gently
you sensed the pulse of life
run through
and the moment
seemed to explode
in your head
in a myriad
of colours and sounds
and you rubbed your thumb
along her wrist
checking the pulse
the life
wanting her
to be the one
and pointing upward
she said breaking through
your dream
look at the colour
of that sky
and feel the warmth
of sun.
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 3:55 AM UTC
Old lame Bridget doesn't hear
Fairy music in the grass
When the gloaming's on the mere
And the shadow people pass:
Never hears their slow grey feet
Coming from the village street
Just beyond the parson's wall,
Where the clover globes are sweet
And the mushroom's parasol
Opens in the moonlit rain.
Every night I hear them call
From their long and merry train.
Old lame Bridget says to me,
"It is just your fancy, child."
She cannot believe I see
Laughing faces in the wild,
Hands that twinkle in the sedge
Bowing at the water's edge
Where the finny minnows quiver,
Shaping on a blue wave's ledge
Bubble foam to sail the river.
And the sunny hands to me
Beckon ever, beckon ever.
Oh! I would be wild and free,
And with the shadow people be.
May 11, 2015
May 11, 2015 at 1:53 PM UTC