Nightingale: Pastiche

Thu, 05/16/2013 - 01:00 -- xb9000


United States
41° 4' 15.2544" N, 111° 59' 16.872" W

Forlorn! The very word is like a bell
That sings and haunts with piercing pain and loss
Upon the heart and soul. It says farewell:
For glassy streams of time do rarely cross
With such import as here within this grove
Of trees and ferns so bright, and darkness fades:
Lovely! In thy poor company will I
Travel and weep and rove
Across thy wide domain of joy; these glades
Of green, so long preserved by thy sole cry.

What lonely past! What aching heart of mine!
The darkness flees so swiftly when the light
Removes intrenchèd black. Then candle dies,
And dark resumes her never-ceasing fight:
It seems Apollo fears to fall upon
The world, long-hardened by hate and memory
Of hate; he, like thee, flies, and graces men:
He with light, thou with song.
I beg thee not to leave my home - but free,
Thou ever wilt remain, ‘neath sky, o’er fen.

Ah, now I see, though through a sleepy veil,
The salty, foamy, azure waves which melt
And beat upon the stony cliff until
It cries such tears as never may be felt
By man: so shortly does he live and breathe,
Too oft allowing drink and sleep to cast
Away his melancholy, hopeful dreams.
Remind us how to wreathe -
In simple, plaintive terms, and until fast
We hold - ourselves in happiness that gleams.

I see! I understand that which thou art:
Orpheus; and I, Eurydice late;
Before thee tremble Sirens of dark art,
Of envy, sorrow, feverish, cold hate;
Thou comest down to Hades, gateman cruel,
And leadeth me away with rhyme and song
Unto the very last; final step too far,
Too hard for such a fool
As I. Bitter is that call, but along!
Through earthen door no more ajar.

Condemnèd not unto that silent fate,
Shrouded from Death by homely forest leaves;
Nor yet am I: this nighttime intimate
Grows old with gray as Dark the dawn bereaves
Him of his thorny, quiet, damp domain.
Or do I merely wake and start too soon,
Envisioning the plea of morning bright?
Thou canst not tell, for tame
Is time to thee, and without care nor room
For such: Away! To wing, and to sweet flight!

My fancy fails to picture, once again,
What thou hast told me once before today:
The tireless and endless joy wherein
I find thee on the wind as I do lay
And ponder love and loss beneath an oak,
And listen deep to earth, the wise old soul,
And hope and wonder, humble, on the loam.
My heart has often broke,
But light that shines, like flame from coal,
Is sometime hid until it is full-grown

Continue with untempered anthem bold
‘Tis rare such rapturous beauty stays beside
My bed and chair and desk. I fear the cold:
For when white winter comes, she windows wide
So sharply shuts, and quickly - frosted calm.
I wander, knowing not what I do seek:
An eerie silence, no frigid wind frets,
And flowers clench their palms.
The one and only friend with whom to speak
Remains myself, my memories, regrets.

To what enchanted isle hast thou fled?
‘Tis not to Crete, nor Hebrides, rocky shores;
In treachery, these seas forbid my head
To rest in search of legends, lore;
The wolves outside the door negotiate
With Artemis: their histories retell
In such a melancholy, piercing tone
As cannot but create
Dry tears unheard, unseen, and yet unfelt:
Lost mariners of sea and sky alone.

I write, and roam through time and visions vast,
While carried there and thence with thy sweet tune;
I, covered and caressed unto the last
‘Til heaven robs me of my breath, while moon
And sprinkled stars give way to waking glow;
The dawnsleep carefully invites the dew
Join the celebration of the infant day:
Wake not too quick, but slow,
For perfect morn, accomp’nied by by the bloom
Of aching flowers, seeketh sun’s calm rays.

Come back to me! These bearded vines
'Mid wrinkled, supplicating steeples sad,
These orchids passionate: not mine, but thine!
This garden delicate and sweet, how glad!
How glad, until thou leavest it forlorn,
And wanting for some sweet tune; but alack!
Thou wast not born into some mortal cage:
No mind so old and worn
As mine constrains, betrays, nor holds thee back:
Preach that which thou hast known for time and age.

I pray, to whom, I am not sure, that thou
Wilt ever grace some verdant hall of trees
Along some agèd road, that supple bough
And beaten earth alike will hear thee
And remember; that some lovers white
May pause, and hark, and hear thy careful word;
That some lost warrior in search of home
May solace find, and light.
'Tis simple music which enthralls, O Bird,
Both humble, blighted farm and prideful throne.

'Tis peaceful in the morn: for Silence reigns,
Not yet disturbed while vigil yet he keeps.
But torn am I: within these torrid veins
Flow harmonies that tend to make me weep;
Yet quietude keeps secrets that entrance,
And silence: canvas for rich beauty all.
Before and after, music soft and deep
Consoles the mind and soul,
So stay and sing a time; or depart withal.
Fled is that music: do I wake or sleep?


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