| ~*~ Rose-Colored Glosses ~*~ hovering between the quest for absolute truth and the pursuit of utter nonsense |
gloss, n.
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| "Well, art is art, isn't it? Still, on the other hand, water is water! And East is East and West is West and if you take cranberries and stew them like applesauce they taste more like prunes than a rhubarb does. Now, uh... Now you tell me what you know." -Groucho Marx |
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~ Friday, February 22, 2008 ~
A Line-Storm Song
Nearly ten years ago a friend of mine passed this poem along to me. I've been thinking of it lately. I'm not sure I want to add any commentary to it; I just want to pass it along and let you appreciate it on your own terms.
29. A Line-storm Song
THE LINE-STORM clouds fly tattered and swift, The road is forlorn all day, Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift, And the hoof-prints vanish away. The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee, 5 Expend their bloom in vain. Come over the hills and far with me, And be my love in the rain. The birds have less to say for themselves In the wood-world’s torn despair 10 Than now these numberless years the elves, Although they are no less there: All song of the woods is crushed like some Wild, easily shattered rose. Come, be my love in the wet woods; come, 15 Where the boughs rain when it blows. There is the gale to urge behind And bruit our singing down, And the shallow waters aflutter with wind From which to gather your gown. 20 What matter if we go clear to the west, And come not through dry-shod? For wilding brooch shall wet your breast The rain-fresh goldenrod. Oh, never this whelming east wind swells 25 But it seems like the sea’s return To the ancient lands where it left the shells Before the age of the fern; And it seems like the time when after doubt Our love came back amain. 30 Oh, come forth into the storm and rout And be my love in the rain.
~ prattled by Miriam at 3:56 p.m. [+]
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