we are become as lotus eaters in which our suffered graces are numbed to true sensation, force fed with base esthesis. Imprisoned by unreal desires blind to the world around behind walls of false design shackled hostage bound. Dare we look at all beyond that which is placed before us for in searching is release from the bland anonymous.
We are no longer who we were devolved as much as lost today where once the world had bloomed with sweet perfume here now the lotus eaters play.
In choral turns their pleas are heard the weary finch, the proud blackbird round robin bold, shy hatch and hen a starling insecure, and wren from song to song and tree to tree no ear can match this symphony nor pen, nor pipe or soft tapped string could hope to vie with feathered things.
the throstle wakes as so must I it seems her song invades yet not disturbs my dreams there may be clouds uncertain in the dawn yet the song thrush seems to minds not and greets the coming morn, but will her lover duet to her cries soulful from the barest trees beneath these youngest skies or has the night before them driven death’s dark veil between her plaintive arias sung sweet to no avail.
I walked through purple heathers wild their heads washed fresh with dew and in their perfumed boudoir I wrote this song for you I sang it as the sun gave way to fogs upon the glen and even o’er the mists of time I’ll sing it now and then whenever heathers breathe the air and sigh their last bouquet my thoughts within these simple words is all I’ll have left to say.
the winter weeps its last yet it is plain to see its former youth is passed and ready to sleep is he who but short days ago had such teeth and claw to rip the world with snow but seeks to hunt no more
the tears of ice have dried with spring’s new born ascent and days of darkness die though not their vowed intent to someday walk again and hold reign o’er the earth to waste this world of men in bitter death’s rebirth.
first, the air is dry and still it wakes and breathes and upon its breath a thought is borne then no more tranquility for you are come all heaven stirs as do my senses, tumescence rears within, without a storm.
into the darkest night it seemed I dreamt a bird of purest verse and that she was all but a dream is why she was my sorest curse for true this bird of reverie would songs to me in sleep relay but come the morn’ her poetry would be lost forever to the day, thus to the muses do I pray that this nightbird’s song will stay with me when my senses rise and not to dawning sun demise.