More Poems

I came to a hollow, a secret place,

Where dwells a timeless hush;

Where dew-drops shine on the spiders’ lace

And ferns grow long and lush.

Three stone steps descend to a pool

As deep and dark as ink,

The water there is clean and cool

And so I knelt to drink

In the depths, half hid from view,

A glimmer, shadow-kissed;

I reached far in, and out I drew

An egg of amethyst.

A holy gift some pilgrim soul

Had brought here from afar,

That healing waters make her whole

As eggs of crystal are.

Reluctantly I said goodbye

Returned it, set it free,

And there in silence may it lie

For all eternity.

What do the limpets dream of

Under their hoods of stone,

As the tides swell in and the tides stream out

And each one sighs alone?

What do the waters laugh about

In a voice so fierce and free?

As the waves surge in and the waves sweep out

They exult in a minor key.

For the restless realm of the shifting shore

Is a desolate place to be,

As the sun and moon play tug of war

With the ebbing-flowing sea.

And far above in the tumbling skies

The stalwart seagulls sail,

And down to the sea their relentless cries

Ride proudly on the gale.

From cliff to cliff their music rings:

The echoing heights resound

As they sing the praise of all fearless things

That roam the wild world round.

While yet in their enchanted sleep

The dreaming limpets know

Of ancient beasts that ruled the deep

In ages long ago.

A murmur lulls in the twilight sands

On lonely shores of distant lands,

The rippling lap of clear lagoons

Caressing, blessing desert dunes.

Kissing, cradling wavelets curl

Smooth and bright as mother-of pearl.

As wafting, drifting fragments ride

In circles on the changing tide,

A myriad, myriad grains of shell

Sway and swish beneath the swell.

And, I fancy, phantoms rise

To swim before my wistful eyes

And touch and take me by the hands

To distant shores of lonely sands.

From deep in the hillside a thundering comes,

A tumbling, rumbling, rolling of drums,

Through tunnels and mineshafts the kettledrums roam

And the underground, echoing dark is their home

In a pool of bright water, a rippling mere,

Shining shoals of flutes appear,

Their gentle voices scarcely awake,

The spirits who dream in the depths of the lake.

In a cemetery ancient and overgrown

An oboe slips from behind a stone;

With a timorous note it has vanished from view

Among the brambles, the cypress and yew.

When weeping willows are waving in gales

The harps in their branches play watery scales,

Their leaves come a-fluttering, whirl to the ground,

To the ripple and sigh of this sorrowful sound.

From beyond the wastes of burning sand

A fanfare rings across the land;

Ardent trumpets clamour an clash

As in the desert sun they flash.

Afloat on the night over fields of snow

Drifts a flock of violins each with a bow;

They ride through the arch of the crystalline sky

And they sing to the numberless stars as they fly.

O’er wastes of water there wander blind bells

Of the desolate ocean their tolling tune tells.

They voyage on the vast, lonely and free,

Like phantoms of sailors lost to the sea.

Thus music is born in all realms of the earth

From the beings who live there in sorrow and mirth;

In sunlight and shadow, in laughter and tears

Their voices unite in the song of the spheres.