Dark Muse
08-15-2008, 07:20 PM
I love the romantic vivid imagery of nature that is portrayed in his work. I find the verses to be beautiful and paint wonderful pictures. At the Trysting Place, is a poem that paritcuarly speaks to me upon a spiritual and deep level. The moon has a sacred place for me, and I love poetry which honors it and holds it in high regaurd.
The Storm
When morning broke, the air was thick with snow;
The burdened trees, with branches bending low,
Were softly mourning o'er the summer fled,
O'er leaves and flowers forever cold and dead.
The dancing flakes were shouting forth "Heigh-ho;"
The sombre forests answered back, "Oh, woe!"
When morning broke.
Ere evening's close, a welcome glory crept
Across the silent sky; the meadows slept
In mantles white; the peak was burnished gold,
And far away the tattered storm-clouds rolled.
A freezing wind across the valley swept;
The lightened swaying tress no longer wept,
Ere evening's close.
Stolen Fruits
Triolet
A kiss is as sweet as a rose,
When you pluck it in secret, I ween;
If you take it when nobody knows.
A kiss is as sweet as a rose,
But the delicate flavor all goes
To the winds if the taking is seen.
A kiss is as sweet as a rose,
When you pluck it in secret, I ween.
After the Rain
Over the mountain's soft mantles of blue,
Racks of white cloud by the sunshine shot through;
Spring's waking glories o'er valley and plain,
After the rain.
Over the heart steals the sun-light at last,-
Shadow and storm from the landscape have passed;
Gladly the soul sings in respite from pain,
After the rain.
At the Trysting-Place
Above the hills, the eastern hills,
There's a threat of the rising moon;
And the night's fair queen
With the silver sheen
Will gladden the dark land soon.
Above the hills, the white light fills
The vast, star-studded dome,
Then, into sight,
A disk of light,
She swings from her eastern home.
And through the trees, the evening breeze
Sings a welcome to greet the light.
Furious and long
Is the rasping song
Of the cricket minstrels of night.
Rise higher, O moon, above the hills!
Sigh softly, O evening breeze!
My throbbing heart with longing thrills
As I wait beneath the trees.
Crickets, chirp low! Her haste is slow!
Now, over the meadow, I see
A queen in white:
In the growing night
My love has come to me.
At Vespers
Across the fields from the maples tall
The growing shadows, which slowly fall,
Are black and cold.
The winds that howl through the leafless trees
In restless tumult, and break and freeze
Are strong and bold.
The sky is lead, with a flush of red
That deepens eastward and fades o'erhead;
The land is sear.
With ceaseless moan from the forests bare
A dirge is borne through the crisp, clear air,
For the dying year.
A softened swell from the vesper bell
Steals o'er the land, and that all is well
It seems to say.
Now peace is deep, and the wild winds sleep;
A western start shall a close watch keep,
O'er the dying day.
The Storm
When morning broke, the air was thick with snow;
The burdened trees, with branches bending low,
Were softly mourning o'er the summer fled,
O'er leaves and flowers forever cold and dead.
The dancing flakes were shouting forth "Heigh-ho;"
The sombre forests answered back, "Oh, woe!"
When morning broke.
Ere evening's close, a welcome glory crept
Across the silent sky; the meadows slept
In mantles white; the peak was burnished gold,
And far away the tattered storm-clouds rolled.
A freezing wind across the valley swept;
The lightened swaying tress no longer wept,
Ere evening's close.
Stolen Fruits
Triolet
A kiss is as sweet as a rose,
When you pluck it in secret, I ween;
If you take it when nobody knows.
A kiss is as sweet as a rose,
But the delicate flavor all goes
To the winds if the taking is seen.
A kiss is as sweet as a rose,
When you pluck it in secret, I ween.
After the Rain
Over the mountain's soft mantles of blue,
Racks of white cloud by the sunshine shot through;
Spring's waking glories o'er valley and plain,
After the rain.
Over the heart steals the sun-light at last,-
Shadow and storm from the landscape have passed;
Gladly the soul sings in respite from pain,
After the rain.
At the Trysting-Place
Above the hills, the eastern hills,
There's a threat of the rising moon;
And the night's fair queen
With the silver sheen
Will gladden the dark land soon.
Above the hills, the white light fills
The vast, star-studded dome,
Then, into sight,
A disk of light,
She swings from her eastern home.
And through the trees, the evening breeze
Sings a welcome to greet the light.
Furious and long
Is the rasping song
Of the cricket minstrels of night.
Rise higher, O moon, above the hills!
Sigh softly, O evening breeze!
My throbbing heart with longing thrills
As I wait beneath the trees.
Crickets, chirp low! Her haste is slow!
Now, over the meadow, I see
A queen in white:
In the growing night
My love has come to me.
At Vespers
Across the fields from the maples tall
The growing shadows, which slowly fall,
Are black and cold.
The winds that howl through the leafless trees
In restless tumult, and break and freeze
Are strong and bold.
The sky is lead, with a flush of red
That deepens eastward and fades o'erhead;
The land is sear.
With ceaseless moan from the forests bare
A dirge is borne through the crisp, clear air,
For the dying year.
A softened swell from the vesper bell
Steals o'er the land, and that all is well
It seems to say.
Now peace is deep, and the wild winds sleep;
A western start shall a close watch keep,
O'er the dying day.