Saturday, September 30, 2017

The Thorn Bush



There is a thorn bush, deep in a glade,
Where none have seen it, living or dead;
And over it a gown is spread:
A gown of red, with gilt brocade.

They say the gown is made of blood;
They say the gilt is angels’ hair;
They say its gleam has lingered there,
Undimming, since before the Flood.

But look! A maid approaches now,
Where never mortal came before;
Not dreaming of what lies in store,
She wanders where the woods allow;

And now she stops, and mutely stares,
The red gown filling up her sight –
A thing to fill her with delight
And banish all her earthly cares.

She takes a step, and then two more,
And then her fingers graze the hem,
Which sends a tremor into them
That thrills her to the very core.

The gown fills up, as if with air,
And lifts upon a ghostly breeze;
It hovers there, amid the trees,
Then lowers towards her shining hair;

With fairy slowness, inch by inch,
It covers her from neck to toe,
By what strange power she does not know;
She hears no sound, and feels no pinch;

And when at last the thing is done,
The maid stands all in gold and red –
Resplendent, she, from heel to head,
And glowing like the morning sun.

Then, only then, she hears a voice,
Which seems to come from earth and stone,
And speaks to her as one well-known:
“ ’Tis time, my dear, you made your choice.

“Will you live here, and be my queen,
And rule this forest by my side?
You’d make a most enchanting bride,
And I a bridegroom fond and keen.

“Will you forsake your mortal life,
And live eternally with me?
Your lot on earth is misery;
But say the word, and end all strife.”

And at this last, a man appeared,
As perfect as was ever made,
Making a splendor in the glade –
A splendor she both loved and feared.

“O, fairy man,” the poor maid cried,
“How gladly I would be your wife!
How soon give up my drearful life
And live eternal by your side!

“But I am promised to a man –
A good man, though I love him not –
And since my dam no liar begot,
I’ll marry him, if ever I can.”

These words once said, the spell was broke;
The man was gone, the dress gone too;
The maid was bathed in morning dew;
As if from slumber, she awoke.

The sturdy groom was beaming-glad
The day their marriage vow was blessed,
And never knew – but partly guessed –
How true a wife he truly had.

Tuesday, September 26, 2017

The Good Folk



This world is not your world alone,
But others walk it too,
Exclaiming, as they do,
In voices ever-new;

Your house is not a place you own,
But borrowed from the men
Who whisper in the glen
“When comes our time again?”

Queer men they are, and strangely small,
And all antiquely clad
In clothes you never had,
And seldom are they sad –

For time is theirs, their bonded thrall,
Their servant and their fool;
Dark woods are theirs to rule,
Where leaves are lush and cool;

And well they know the way to wait,
Until the coming hour
When all their storied power
Shall rise again, and flower,

And those they love and those they hate
Will writhe in joy and pain,
And marvel and complain:
“The Good Folk live again!”

Sunday, September 24, 2017

My Father



I walk in my father’s sunlight;
I stand in my father’s breeze;
I lie in the dappled shadows
Under my father’s trees;

I carry my father’s wisdom,
His love, and his beaming pride;
I live in the world of my father,
Although my father has died.

The dead are not dead to the living;
We feel them and see them smile;
My father was gracious and giving,
And lived for too short a while.

So today I remember my father –
Tomorrow and yesterday, too;
And some nights I dream of my father,
And always am glad when I do.

Too large are my father’s footsteps
For any one foot to fill,
But a thousand are walking with me
Who remember my father still.

I know he can never see me –
The grave is too dark for sight –
But his blood and his heart are in me,
And I live in my father’s light.