After Many a Springtide Dies the Swan

Once was so glorious in his beauty,
Breathtakingly handsome and full of seduction,

Like a divine tree of a charm in a gleaming appearance,
Fancied many a magnificent birds;

Oh silly splendid birds! You are the travellers of the globe,
Be not fascinated with his calm temptation-
It will decay and fall apart.    

Alas! For his gentle shadow, you’re maddest unto the confines.

Give the immortality and never dying beauty,
He prayed for immortal youth and immortal age.

Only if, god would recall his gift,
Only if one could challenge the nature,

Preserve me in the portrait, where I will remain richly fresh,
He exclaimed wretchedly, perhaps one would live forever!

Real was the joy in living young, perhaps, the ultimate joy left?

Shining feathers are greyed with a gloom, and
Luminous vision is fading away.
Eye-catching walks of youth are unsteady now,
The envious stream couldn’t imitate the image of glowing and beautiful,
In his sleepy eyes once more dream of youth twinkles.
Departs the last drop of a tear in silence,

And, after many a springtide dies the swan.

I wonder if the sap is stirring yet,
If wintry birds are dreaming of a mate,
If frozen snowdrops feel as yet the sun
And crocus fires are kindling one by one:
Sing, robin, sing;
I still am sore in doubt concerning Spring.

I wonder if the springtide of this year
Will bring another Spring both lost and dear;
If heart and spirit will find out their Spring,
Or if the world alone will bud and sing:
Sing, hope, to me;
Sweet notes, my hope, soft notes for memory.

The sap will surely quicken soon or late,
The tardiest bird will twitter to a mate;
So Spring must dawn again with warmth and
bloom,
Or in this world, or in the world to come:
Sing, voice of Spring,
Till I too blossom and rejoice and sing.

Sweet, I blame you not, for mine the fault
was, had I not been made of common clay
I had climbed the higher heights unclimbed
yet, seen the fuller air, the larger day.

From the wildness of my wasted passion I had
struck a better, clearer song,
Lit some lighter light of freer freedom, battled
with some Hydra-headed wrong.

Had my lips been smitten into music by the
kisses that but made them bleed,
You had walked with Bice and the angels on
that verdant and enamelled mead.

I had trod the road which Dante treading saw
the suns of seven circles shine,
Ay! perchance had seen the heavens opening,
as they opened to the Florentine.

And the mighty nations would have crowned
me, who am crownless now and without name,
And some orient dawn had found me kneeling
on the threshold of the House of Fame.

I had sat within that marble circle where the
oldest bard is as the young,
And the pipe is ever dropping honey, and the
lyre’s strings are ever strung.

Keats had lifted up his hymeneal curls from out
the poppy-seeded wine,
With ambrosial mouth had kissed my forehead,
clasped the hand of noble love in mine.

And at springtide, when the apple-blossoms brush
the burnished ***** of the dove,
Two young lovers lying in an orchard would
have read the story of our love.

Would have read the legend of my passion,
known the bitter secret of my heart,
Kissed as we have kissed, but never parted as
we two are fated now to part.

For the crimson flower of our life is eaten by
the cankerworm of truth,
And no hand can gather up the fallen withered
petals of the rose of youth.

Yet I am not sorry that I loved you—ah! what
else had I a boy to do,—
For the hungry teeth of time devour, and the
silent-footed years pursue.

Rudderless, we drift athwart a tempest, and
when once the storm of youth is past,
Without lyre, without lute or chorus, Death
the silent pilot comes at last.

And within the grave there is no pleasure, for
the blindworm battens on the root,
And Desire shudders into ashes, and the tree of
Passion bears no fruit.

Ah! what else had I to do but love you, God’s
own mother was less dear to me,
And less dear the Cytheraean rising like an
argent lily from the sea.

I have made my choice, have lived my poems,
and, though youth is gone in wasted days,
I have found the lover’s crown of myrtle better
than the poet’s crown of bays.

To Jenny came a gentle youth
   From inland leazes lone;
His love was fresh as apple-blooth
   By Parrett, Yeo, or Tone.
And duly he entreated her
To be his tender minister,
   And call him aye her own.

Fair Jenny’s life had hardly been
   A life of modesty;
At Casterbridge experience keen
   Of many loves had she
From scarcely sixteen years above:
Among them sundry troopers of
   The King’s-Own Cavalry.

But each with charger, sword, and gun,
   Had bluffed the Biscay wave;
And Jenny prized her gentle one
   For all the love he gave.
She vowed to be, if they were wed,
His honest wife in heart and head
   From bride-ale hour to grave.

Wedded they were. Her husband’s trust
   In Jenny knew no bound,
And Jenny kept her pure and just,
   Till even malice found
No sin or sign of ill to be
In one who walked so decently
   The duteous helpmate’s round.

Two sons were born, and bloomed to men,
   And roamed, and were as not:
Alone was Jenny left again
   As ere her mind had sought
A solace in domestic joys,
And ere the vanished pair of boys
   Were sent to sun her cot.

She numbered near on sixty years,
   And passed as elderly,
When, in the street, with flush of fears,
   On day discovered she,
From shine of swords and thump of drum,
Her early loves from war had come,
   The King’s Own Cavalry.

She turned aside, and bowed her head
   Anigh Saint Peter’s door;
“Alas for chastened thoughts!” she said;
   “I’m faded now, and ****,
And yet those notes—they thrill me through,
And those gay forms move me anew
   As in the years of yore!”…

—’Twas Christmas, and the Phoenix Inn
   Was lit with tapers tall,
For thirty of the trooper men
   Had vowed to give a ball
As “Theirs” had done (fame handed down)
When lying in the self-same town
   Ere Buonaparté’s fall.

That night the throbbing “Soldier’s Joy,”
   The measured tread and sway
Of “Fancy-Lad” and “Maiden Coy,”
   Reached Jenny as she lay
Beside her spouse; till springtide blood
Seemed scouring through her like a flood
   That whisked the years away.

She rose, and rayed, and decked her head
   To hide her ringlets thin;
Upon her cap two bows of red
   She fixed with hasty pin;
Unheard descending to the street,
She trod the flags with tune-led feet,
   And stood before the Inn.

Save for the dancers’, not a sound
   Disturbed the icy air;
No watchman on his midnight round
   Or traveller was there;
But over All-Saints’, high and bright,
Pulsed to the music Sirius white,
   The Wain by Bullstake Square.

She knocked, but found her further stride
   Checked by a sergeant tall:
“Gay Granny, whence come you?” he cried;
   “This is a private ball.”
—”No one has more right here than me!
Ere you were born, man,” answered she,
   “I knew the regiment all!”

“Take not the lady’s visit ill!”
   Upspoke the steward free;
“We lack sufficient partners still,
   So, prithee let her be!”
They seized and whirled her ’mid the maze,
And Jenny felt as in the days
   Of her immodesty.

Hour chased each hour, and night advanced;
   She sped as shod with wings;
Each time and every time she danced—
   Reels, jigs, poussettes, and flings:
They cheered her as she soared and swooped
(She’d learnt ere art in dancing drooped
   From hops to slothful swings).

The favorite Quick-step “Speed the Plough”—
   (Cross hands, cast off, and wheel)—
“The Triumph,” “Sylph,” “The Row-dow dow,”
   Famed “Major Malley’s Reel,”
“The Duke of York’s,” “The Fairy Dance,”
“The Bridge of Lodi” (brought from France),
   She beat out, toe and heel.

The “Fall of Paris” clanged its close,
   And Peter’s chime told four,
When Jenny, *****-beating, rose
   To seek her silent door.
They tiptoed in escorting her,
Lest stroke of heel or ***** of spur
   Should break her goodman’s snore.

The fire that late had burnt fell slack
   When lone at last stood she;
Her nine-and-fifty years came back;
   She sank upon her knee
Beside the durn, and like a dart
A something arrowed through her heart
   In shoots of agony.

Their footsteps died as she leant there,
   Lit by the morning star
Hanging above the moorland, where
   The aged elm-rows are;
And, as o’ernight, from Pummery Ridge
To Maembury Ring and Standfast Bridge
   No life stirred, near or far.

Though inner mischief worked amain,
   She reached her husband’s side;
Where, toil-weary, as he had lain
   Beneath the patchwork pied
When yestereve she’d forthward crept,
And as unwitting, still he slept
   Who did in her confide.

A tear sprang as she turned and viewed
   His features free from guile;
She kissed him long, as when, just wooed.
   She chose his domicile.
Death menaced now; yet less for life
She wished than that she were the wife
   That she had been erstwhile.

Time wore to six. Her husband rose
   And struck the steel and stone;
He glanced at Jenny, whose repose
   Seemed deeper than his own.
With dumb dismay, on closer sight,
He gathered sense that in the night,
   Or morn, her soul had flown.

When told that some too mighty strain
   For one so many-yeared
Had burst her *****’s master-vein,
   His doubts remained unstirred.
His Jenny had not left his side
Betwixt the eve and morning-tide:
   —The King’s said not a word.

Well! times are not as times were then,
   Nor fair ones half so free;
And truly they were martial men,
   The King’s-Own Cavalry.
And when they went from Casterbridge
And vanished over Mellstock Ridge,
   ’Twas saddest morn to see.

When he asked me to draw something I made little flowers at the corners of pages and when I grew up they bloomed all over my notebooks, today I pick them up one by one, look through the pages to see him and the evenings humming birds sang on its branches.

Verse, a breeze ’mid blossoms straying,
Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee—
Both were mine! Life went a-maying
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,
When I was young!
When I was young?—Ah, woeful When!
Ah! for the change ‘twixt Now and Then!
This breathing house not built with hands,
This body that does me grievous wrong,
O’er aery cliffs and glittering sands
How lightly then it flashed along,
Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,
On winding lakes and rivers wide,
That ask no aid of sail or oar,
That fear no spite of wind or tide!
Nought cared this body for wind or weather
When Youth and I lived in’t together.

Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like;
Friendship is a sheltering tree;
O the joys! that came down shower-like,
Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,
Ere I was old!
Ere I was old? Ah woeful Ere,
Which tells me, Youth’s no longer here!
O Youth! for years so many and sweet
’Tis known that Thou and I were one,
I’ll think it but a fond conceit—
It cannot be that Thou art gone!
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet tolled—
And thou wert aye a masker bold!
What strange disguise hast now put on,
To make believe that thou art gone?
I see these locks in silvery slips,
This drooping gait, this altered size:
But Springtide blossoms on thy lips,
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes:
Life is but Thought: so think I will
That Youth and I are housemates still.

Dew-drops are the gems of morning,
But the tears of mournful eve!
Where no hope is, life’s a warning
That only serves to make us grieve
When we are old:
That only serves to make us grieve
With oft and tedious taking-leave,
Like some poor nigh-related guest
That may not rudely be dismist;
Yet hath out-stayed his welcome while,
And tells the jest without the smile.

I cherish the ever changing music -
of familiar streams , the vivid palate of -
colors in Hill Country scenes
The warble of the robins in March ,
The clamor of rock bass in the evening -
marsh
The veracity of springtide bees
The burgeoning blossoms of plum ,
honeysuckle and peach tree
I relish the well worn trails leading to shady dales ,
The whitewash pit , the gravel byway and -
the split rail fence
The song of locust in the midday broomsage
A chorus of wren , sparrow and bluebird -
along the hardtop shoulders
The greeting of yardbirds at the -
homestead border ...

Who goes amid the green wood
With springtide all adorning her?
Who goes amid the merry green wood
To make it merrier?

Who passes in the sunlight
By ways that know the light footfall?
Who passes in the sweet sunlight
With mien so virginal?

The ways of all the woodland
Gleam with a soft and golden fire -- -
For whom does all the sunny woodland
Carry so brave attire?

O, it is for my true love
The woods their rich apparel wear -- -
O, it is for my own true love,
That is so young and fair.

time steals up soft in autumn’s haze
through fallen leaves and frosted morn
no longer smiles through summer days
bears dreadful gaze of mercy shorn

scribes lines upon youth’s winsome face
and brings the ache of stiffened joint
gives halting stride and slower pace
age piled like leaves does thus anoint

yet in thine eye dwells springtide’s bloom
in ardor’s dance is lightened tread
warm voice dispels autumnal gloom
at gentle touch are decades fled

for love knows naught of count of days
let the years flow as they will
unclouded passion’s flames yet blaze
I shall be thy lover still

Master of the murmuring courts
    Where the shapes of sleep convene!—
Lo! my spirit here exhorts
    All the powers of thy demesne
    For their aid to woo my queen.
       What reports
    Yield thy jealous courts unseen?

  Vaporous, unaccountable,
    Dreamland lies forlorn of light,
Hollow like a breathing shell.
    Ah! that from all dreams I might
    Choose one dream and guide its flight!
       I know well
    What her sleep should tell to-night.

  There the dreams are multitudes:
    Some that will not wait for sleep,
Deep within the August woods;
    Some that hum while rest may steep
    Weary labour laid a-heap;
       Interludes,
    Some, of grievous moods that weep.

  Poets’ fancies all are there:
    There the elf-girls flood with wings
Valleys full of plaintive air;
    There breathe perfumes; there in rings
    Whirl the foam-bewildered springs;
       Siren there
    Winds her dizzy hair and sings.

  Thence the one dream mutually
    Dreamed in bridal unison,
Less than waking ecstasy;
    Half-formed visions that make moan
    In the house of birth alone;
       And what we
    At death’s wicket see, unknown.

  But for mine own sleep, it lies
    In one gracious form’s control,
Fair with honourable eyes,
    Lamps of a translucent soul:
    O their glance is loftiest dole,
       Sweet and wise,
    Wherein Love descries his goal.

  Reft of her, my dreams are all
    Clammy trance that fears the sky:
Changing footpaths shift and fall;
    From polluted coverts nigh,
    Miserable phantoms sigh;
       Quakes the pall,
    And the funeral goes by.

  Master, is it soothly said
    That, as echoes of man’s speech
Far in secret clefts are made,
    So do all men’s bodies reach
    Shadows o’er thy sunken beach,—
       Shape or shade
    In those halls pourtrayed of each?

  Ah! might I, by thy good grace
    Groping in the windy stair,
(Darkness and the breath of space
    Like loud waters everywhere,)
    Meeting mine own image there
       Face to face,
    Send it from that place to her!

  Nay, not I; but oh! do thou,
    Master, from thy shadowkind
Call my body’s phantom now:
    Bid it bear its face declin’d
    Till its flight her slumbers find,
       And her brow
    Feel its presence bow like wind.

  Where in groves the gracile Spring
    Trembles, with mute orison
Confidently strengthening,
    Water’s voice and wind’s as one
    Shed an echo in the sun.
       Soft as Spring,
    Master, bid it sing and moan.

  Song shall tell how glad and strong
    Is the night she soothes alway;
Moan shall grieve with that parched tongue
    Of the brazen hours of day:
    Sounds as of the springtide they,
       Moan and song,
    While the chill months long for May.

  Not the prayers which with all leave
    The world’s fluent woes prefer,—
Not the praise the world doth give,
    Dulcet fulsome whisperer;—
    Let it yield my love to her,
       And achieve
    Strength that shall not grieve or err.

  Wheresoe’er my dreams befall,
    Both at night-watch, (let it say,)
And where round the sundial
    The reluctant hours of day,
    Heartless, hopeless of their way,
       Rest and call;—
    There her glance doth fall and stay.

  Suddenly her face is there:
    So do mounting vapours wreathe
Subtle-scented transports where
    The black firwood sets its teeth.
    Part the boughs and look beneath,—
       Lilies share
    Secret waters there, and breathe.

  Master, bid my shadow bend
    Whispering thus till birth of light,
Lest new shapes that sleep may send
    Scatter all its work to flight;—
    Master, master of the night,
       Bid it spend
    Speech, song, prayer, and end aright.

  Yet, ah me! if at her head
    There another phantom lean
Murmuring o’er the fragrant bed,—
    Ah! and if my spirit’s queen
    Smile those alien prayers between,—
       Ah! poor shade!
    Shall it strive, or fade unseen?

  How should love’s own messenger
    Strive with love and be love’s foe?
Master, nay! If thus, in her,
    Sleep a wedded heart should show,—
    Silent let mine image go,
       Its old share
    Of thy spell-bound air to know.

  Like a vapour wan and mute,
    Like a flame, so let it pass;
One low sigh across her lute,
    One dull breath against her glass;
    And to my sad soul, alas!
       One salute
    Cold as when Death’s foot shall pass.

  Then, too, let all hopes of mine,
    All vain hopes by night and day,
Slowly at thy summoning sign
    Rise up pallid and obey.
    Dreams, if this is thus, were they:—
       Be they thine,
    And to dreamworld pine away.

  Yet from old time, life, not death,
    Master, in thy rule is rife:
Lo! through thee, with mingling breath,
    Adam woke beside his wife.
    O Love bring me so, for strife,
       Force and faith,
    Bring me so not death but life!

  Yea, to Love himself is pour’d
    This frail song of hope and fear.
Thou art Love, of one accord
    With kind Sleep to bring her near,
    Still-eyed, deep-eyed, ah how dear.
       Master, Lord,
    In her name implor’d, O hear!

**! we were strong, we were swift, we were brave.
Youth was a challenge, and Life was a fight.
All that was best in us gladly we gave,
Sprang from the rally, and leapt for the height.
Smiling is Love in a foam of Spring flowers:
Harden our hearts to him -- on let us press!
Oh, what a triumph and pride shall be ours!
See where it beacons, the star of success!

Cares seem to crowd on us -- so much to do;
New fields to conquer, and time's on the wing.
Grey hairs are showing, a wrinkle or two;
Somehow our footstep is losing its spring.
Pleasure's forsaken us, Love ceased to smile;
Youth has been funeralled; Age travels fast.
Sometimes we wonder: is it worth while?
There! we have gained to the summit at last.

Aye, we have triumphed! Now must we haste,
Revel in victory . . . why! what is wrong?
Life's choicest vintage is flat to the taste --
Are we too late? Have we laboured too long?
Wealth, power, fame we hold . . . ah! but the truth:
Would we not give this vain glory of ours
For one mad, glad year of glorious youth,
Life in the Springtide, and Love in the flowers.

Cups of coffee and plates with sugar crumbs
from pastry warm with cinnamon and cardamom,
and books overturned on antique tables
with scruff marks and scratches, loved, well-used,
(and me, in the middle of it all, listening to the
heartbeat of this country and its sincerity,
learning wisdom through small things).
He is a six foot springtide of caffeine and literature,
effervescent with sincerity and kindness and warmth.
I smile at him over the rim of my cup, and
suddenly I am swept up and moving with
his current, in love with him and a summer
spent scribbling into casebound notebooks
and with my hair flying in the wind that rustles
the trees around us, and with his lips on my neck.
Wild roses on brick walls and wooden window frames,
and the lavender growing on the curb all smile,
content to witness summer love bloom like
all things tend to do, in this season and this place.
I let him explain to me the stars in nights that
never seem to really begin but last forever;
he teaches me in not-quite darkness what
they mean, and I tell him under fairy-lights
how small I feel in the multitude of this universe.
He nods solemnly and I feel his breath in my hair,
holding me on this earth as he shows me galaxies.

- lund. cs.

.
           A thatched and wicker basket-nest
           Cradles a cluster bright and new
           And delicate and coolly blue,
With speckled royal freckles blessed.

           The cherry blossoms pink the trees.
           A snowy fall of tiny white
           And quickly flipping petals light
Into an errant summer breeze.

           Diffusely, prodigally blows
           A heavy ******-like scent,—
           The lilac's prized accomplishment,—
The greenest envy of the rose.

           And everywhere I idly walk
           I see, in all the lightened notes
           And whited tones and frosted coats,
The springtide paints that mix with chalk.

^ ^

Long have I longed, till I am tired
    Of longing and desire;
Farewell my points in vain desired,
        My dying fire;
Farewell all things that die and fail and tire.

Springtide and youth and useless pleasure
    And all my useless scheming,
My hopes of unattainable treasure,
        Dreams not worth dreaming,
Glow-worms that gleam but yield no warmth in gleaming,

Farewell all shows that fade in showing:
    My wish and joy stand over
Until to-morrow; Heaven is glowing
        Through cloudy cover,
Beyond all clouds loves me my Heavenly Lover.

the hardest part was starving it
every ideal like springtide flowerets
you turned to archaic grisly gravel
watch them crash through
weathered rooftops
watch them fall

drawing maps with hungry voices
winding staircase. hidden street.
drained from stepping on recurrent
cryptic papers scattered floorboards
no matter how many times they're
cleaned, there they are

bright coral turns vile muddy brown
when it stays in the sun too long
alone, everybody knows that
that's what they thought
beneath a brittle beacon, cloudy day
they'll keep pretending, it'll be okay

"Whose heart was breaking for a little love."

Down-stairs I laugh, I sport and jest with all:
        But in my solitary room above
I turn my face in silence to the wall;
        My heart is breaking for a little love.
                Though winter frosts are done,
                 And birds pair every one,
And leaves peep out, for springtide is begun.

I feel no spring, while spring is wellnigh blown,
         I find no nest, while nests are in the grove:
Woe's me for mine own heart that dwells alone,
        My heart that breaketh for a little love.
         While golden in the sun
        Rivulets rise and run,
While lilies bud, for springtide is begun.

All love, are loved, save only I; their hearts
         Beat warm with love and joy, beat full thereof:
They cannot guess, who play the pleasant parts,
         My heart is breaking for a little love.
                 While beehives wake and whirr,
                 And rabbit thins his fur,
In living spring that sets the world astir.
I deck myself with silks and jewelry,
         I plume myself like any mated dove:
They praise my rustling show, and never see
         My heart is breaking for a little love.
                 While sprouts green lavender
                 With rosemary and myrrh,
For in quick spring the sap is all astir.

Perhaps some saints in glory guess the truth,
         Perhaps some angels read it as they move,
And cry one to another full of ruth,
         "Her heart is breaking for a little love."
                 Though other things have birth,
                 And leap and sing for mirth,
When spring-time wakes and clothes and feeds the earth.

Yet saith a saint: "Take patience for thy scathe";
         Yet saith an angel: "Wait, for thou shalt prove
True best is last, true life is born of death,
         O thou, heart-broken for a little love!
                 Then love shall fill thy girth,
                 And love make fat thy dearth,
When new spring builds new heaven and clean new earth."

think  I  shall  be springtime; such   clumsy
scent  of  the world   collapsing  not  with  nets
but   hands  not upon  trellis  but    bodies –
    sleep    shall   carry   us  to  inches
of  terrible  speech    such somnolent world senses
    quietness   in  the  rivers   of   our blood;
how  murmurously  veritable    moment
     leaps   forth  ripe  in the   air   of such  splendidness
when  it   was not   mountains
    but    your   *******   deep within   the    Earth of  me
and I  rain    cleaving  the   scent   of   the world
    into   two   separateness   until   the
enormously     ****   moon   plunges    within;
   I    shall   be   a   tree
and you, a rose    or   springtide, or   everything
   that
            blooms,    withers,
dances – new  beginnings;

.
The tender Willow leaves whoosh softly
                              with the fickle cherry blossom breeze

Painting the colour
                              these inevitable days ,
                              the fragrant scent
                                                      o­f springtide

No longer holding back
                              the dreams from deep in a heart
                                                               w­axing gibbous ,

the unopined moon
                              rose up over an unwritten poem

painting hues with words
                              shaping the shadows of its song
                              into a musically dappled tableau

stroked by the tickle of poignant whispers

                              waft from the veritable roguish winter nadir
                                              ― a latent and longing heart


         ― beneath
                              a sky full of stars
                                      
                 ­                                        ✩ ✩ ☼ ✩ ✩
                                                     *wild is the wind

Velveteen butterflies sail into strawberry way , strike a pose against the meditative , sunny disposition of the coming May
Harlequin horseflies and Bumblebee jesters
Pear bloom ballet , Mayfly soloist , interpretive Ferns are quite dashing in the Alabama breeze , Wood Thrush dancers and Mourning Dove romantics cooing in the Honey Locust trees
Madame April's storybook of Springtide scenes
and fairytale dreams ...

Momma Thrashers working song , familiar voice of hedgerow levity
Timeless tune of the Springtide brevity
Pitch perfect Maytime sun-kissed divinity
Songs of hope and lasting serenity

Two young lovers lie facing the moon
As they read lines of my muse passion
In other to discern the secret of my heart
Air of warm kisses kissed their thought
For they never parted not like we're fated to part

As petals of rose withered from my heart
Yet I am sorry to say I love you
For my mind is hungry and wait to devour you
as storm choruses your name into my heart
Maybe dead will be one to separate us at last

As the lilies attract so my love for you shine
jealousy flown away your love for my shrine
No deception for I filled your dream with kisses
As spinning ***** you reoccurred in my heart
I decide to go for the tree of passion will bear no fruit

In my heart I solely love you as a decorated thorns
Running still as water towards a turbine
Generating bewildered lights in our souls
As the energy continues to revamp our love
The springtide will make us fly as doves

Written by
Martin Ijir

How fair is it to deprive the world of its wildest flower?
I just don’t know! How should I? I may be wrong!
A flower that retains the dew of dawn, a symbol of youth and springtide
The fountain from where the vivid colors rise

Now the last ship has sailed, seeking the meridian of hope,
I heard that hope is the last thing that dies when everything seems lost,
But unfortunately it dies, leaving us numb- oh try to show sympathy!

Through smoke appeared her sparkling eyes
I tried to envision the beauty…
But my dreams are caged in an amber crust
How could I endure to inhale her light?
Oh! Lord please give me strength!
As an image divine sprang forth from the moon,
A dim light surrounded her and I fought hard nay to stare…

The Music in the Wind
Written by Adam M. Snow

O you sweet ol sound that grasp the wind,
you hold so tight to sway again -
through the branches springtide leaves,
such a tune these wind they weaves.
O that sweet ol song I heard before;
those magic notes, amusing score.
Like a moth's once soon cocoon,
your sweet ol song shall bring a new.
The songs that birds in morning sing,
those chapel bells whom we praise to ring.
Among the wind, they play so free -
O sweet ol sound, play again for me.
Let me hear o rustling branches,
a sound of an octave cord -
that of which o nature brings me,
the songs of which the tune - delights me.
The joy your tune in which it brings,
upon the wind - upon pigeons wings.
Songs of which entwined with man,
like that of many passing cars,
or the coming train to name of some;
a flowing rhythm - their own drum.
O this day your finest song,
I can hear it all day long.
To hear thee, o city music,
a concerto to befit,
- entwined with the sound of nature
- entwined with the earth for sure.
Your tune so great it can be seen,
through the branches, leaves of green.
Such an awe we shall not waste,
the joyance of sweet nature's fate.
http://amsnow.weebly.com

The crying sky with heavy afternoon crystal
drops of heartache tickling
sweetgrass mingled with newfound sunshine
With piedmont wine forming perfect pools ,
ushering streams to awaiting seas
A place to bathe for romantics like me
A home for springtide antics ,
for polka dot bullfrogs , singing daisies ,
red grass blankets and apple tree sergeants
Windemere spiderlings , crooning wood larks ,
hereford dancers crossing purple clover parks* ..

I paused to settle down for a moment , to face the incoming breeze , to briefly rest ..  As it began to swirl about me retrospection scrolled through my weary mind , thoughts of the March runaway and his life left behind ...The vociferous purveyor of forgiveness mute and dazed ..To drift across bittersweet periods , to fearfully walk in the tracks of insecurity and the minds malaise ...
Let youth represent Spring , may the child play in the bounty of April and May ..
Recall springtide as the poet , born of creativity , yellow butterflies and red roses ... June befit the Bride  , the month of love and laughter , the awe inspiring song of Turtle Dove , the Crows whimsical banter , the Mockingbird and the morning Fig ..
Attain the language writ upon the midday firmament , the voice of turbulent rivers .. The answer beheld , expressed over Sunflower field and Blueridge Mountain .. Forever ..

The sapphire surface was dappled
in April sunshine
Evergreen seeds soared in the
morning breeze
Bluejays , Warblers and Finches
announced the rite of Springtide
Songbirds of every color replied
from her hardwood canopies
A psalm from every tree
A shower of blessings unto me* ..

You will find me in the petrichor of June
Look for a hummingbird at the window
Listen for the arousal of chimes in the springtide -
air
Pay attention to every autumn sunrise
The call of dove in the dew kissed October
morn
Sunlight reflecting across Decembers frosted plowland
The return of robins in March

A statuary
of bliss
was Springtide
here that
Euripides might
deem as
golden for
his future
but this
righteous indignation
was angst
in literature
today but
rabbi was
surreal too
but temperamental  
once again.

Renewed shades of green
Blackbirds rejoicing among the -
wavering trees
Songs of springtide revival
Performers freed of winters bridle
April wind chimes that tingle to -
and fro
Wild Turkey's that forage the -
pecan row
Churning brooks with thoughts -
of the ocean
The 'fairyfly' dancers in evening devotion ...

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