the morning sun is come

the morning sun is come
to paint the robin red
and daub the shadows golden
which take me from my bed
but as I rise to greet him
the dreams of you remain
and though the night is cast away
no thought of you could wane
so the morning sun is come
and lights the dawn anew
but like the robin on his breast
I wear red dreams of you.


are their souls afire still
from the mountains long since dead
and capped perpetual winter’d chill
no more the flames of Vulcan’s dread?

they stand to watch the eons die
no mortal mind may fathom well
as beneath the countless skies
these sentinels no secrets tell.

so silent stands their mystery
as before man from clay was born
that none may know their history
from then until the last sun dawns

The Virgin Way

he had not walked this way before
nor set foot upon the trail
which his ancestors travailed
a million nights ago or more
when man’s footsteps were as small
as those of beast or bird or game
without the will this wild to tame
and to make from summer, fall
so this forest waits for him
afeared of what his presence brings
for the ending does begin
when man looks on everything.