Late-summer dawn

[From: “The Writings of C. James Gwyllyn”]

A ghost is speechless among the trees,
pensive and solemn; memories
are flowers pressed between pages
of the mind; quiet in cages,
domiciled and nearly tame,
in a wilderness aflame.
The alternating cloud and sun,
the shifting winds, the day begun
with such serene explosion of light,
tranquil as a wandering wight;
all is expressed in breathing,
with the air through leaves, seething,
attending to whispered almost-words
between the songs of insects and birds;
the grass, the trees, the very stones,
the hidden array of sleeping bones,
the diminishing corners of shade
while light upon the world is laid,
a white-golden torrent, a sea
of endless day, of bright eternity.

Soft Darkness

[From: “The Writings of C. James Gwyllyn”]

Soft darkness, speaking with great silence
in the soaring recesses of the mind,
in the deep crypts of the heart,
arises at last, ancient and new-made
amidst the brooding and relentless storm
persisting through the night-hours.
This is not our world - such is clear:
broken, faltering and bourne along
in the deep-gutted stream across the moor
and beyond, out to the slumbering sea
to be swallowed like shadowed coombs
at midnight; and we, like stars in the bright
dawn of sudden daylight-dreamings,
remain in serene and silent vigil.

A Journey by Night

[From: “The Writings of C. James Gwyllyn”]
 
Darkness loomed like gothic spires
lit by silver candle-fires;
the wind moaned low like ghostly choirs
in the cathedral of the night.
 
My footsteps hastened away from Thwaite;
my errand there had made me late.
The bright day met its nightly fate
and perished out of sight.
 
Upon that road, that misty strand
piercing through a forest-land
of twisted trees, I could understand
the many terrors of the night:
 
Such gnarled arms and demon-faces
emerged from deep and dire places
to chase away all holy graces
and impede me if they might.
 
The shapes pressed inward, I rushed along;
my frame was weary, the wind was strong.
I tried to sing a hopeful song
in the cathedral of the night.
 
The song soon died; I fought despair.
But lo! what was that glinting there
beyond the trees? A light most fair:
my home at last in sight!
 
The door opened out, I heard my name,
the hearth brimmed with a golden flame
and merry faces all exclaimed:
Come in now from the night!

Face the waves

[From: “The Writings of C. James Gwyllyn”]
 
Face the waves which touch our country;
breathe the starlight, admixed with brine;
swim amidst bright dreams of morning
tossed and tumbled through the night;
a strong desire for wind is upon us,
driven fierce by unseen tempests,
pushing the waters onto pale shores
through wild and wavering shadows;
these fair bone-cages are being washed,
serene in the warm and ebbing tide;
the fragile light is burning down
into the half-illumined depths;
such twilight and silhouetted smiles,
such longings between the water-pages,
longings not understood by youth:
the endless minstrelsy of frothy waves,
eyes bright beneath star-spray blossoms,
and the dying of each wave in its turn.

I shall haunt all these places

[From: “The Last Journal of Gwyllyn”]

“I shall haunt all these places”, said he,
“in this great gothic world - I shall haunt them all:
a spectral moth amid blossoms at twilight
imbibing their fragrance beneath the budding stars
after the day has slumbered into deep dreamings,
when comes a stone-grey joyous melancholy,
with air like maiden-breaths expanding into quiet
and innocent peace. I shall wander thus, and rest,
wander and rest, and discover all the secret places;
shall become lost amid the moon-sheen, among
the everlasting mountains of dark-swelling silence
to await the serene and fair dawning of the Sun.”

The Final Movement

[From: “The Last Journal of Gwyllyn”]

We gaze through eyes bright with candlelight,  
across moorlands of memory, toward the departed sun 
and into profound depths of shadow-remembrance:
delving, delving - yet those riches are lost to time.

We could not hold forever to the fair visions
which flickered lively upon these walls
in daylight-dreamings, in patterns manifold,
dancing to a symphony now fading away.

Behold we now, from a quiet distance, 
the world turning slowly, wick smouldering, 
wax melting thick on the table, mounding up in silent waves
like the empty heath-hills stretching out beyond sight.

Shadows remain in corners; yet the sun of tomorrow
promises a wide expanse of new-blooming heather,
as now the moon rises fair and bright, the wind serene 
under the stars, under the oaks, under the eaves of the house.

Whispers in the Night

[From: “The Writings of C. James Gwyllyn”]

Breath is pale beneath the moon,
blood is warm as afternoon.
Colours blend in salt-sea eyes,
storm clouds halt in silent skies.
The rain is heavy but never falls,
the voice is loud but never calls.
Dreams are vivid but all forgotten,
bright like stars but ill-begotten,
fountains behind a darkened glass.
Memories are kindled, but swiftly pass
like whispers spoken in the night,
like promises with the morning light.
Two faces at the upper window
behold the moors now draped in shadow.
Her breath is pale beneath the moon,
his blood is warm as afternoon.

Lines Composed at Headington Hill, Oxford

[From: "The Last Journal of Gwyllyn"]

Voices are on the autumn breeze
sifting through the dying leaves
with the sound of distant seas:
“O come with us! O come!

“The light is slanting from the west;

fly to where all things are best –
a dwelling-place of peace and rest.
O come with us! O come!

“Life has reached its endmost stage,
years have bloomed with fullest age,
the reader turns the final page –
O come with us! O come!

“O come with us, the day is ending;
the lights of Sun and Moon are blending;
the wind is strong, the trees are bending –
O come with us! O come!

“We fly away, beyond the sky
to where the Light will never die;
whisper at last a soft ‘good-bye’
O come with us! O come!”

I come with you, I come with you!
I come with you, I come!

Overnight in Coeur d'Alene

The sky is broken; a jeweled night spills out.
The watchful crows departed like shadows
to pursue the dying-coal of daylight
far into the darkening forest-deeps.
Dry wood burns best and brightest,
with less smoke. Our lives are leaves,
poised and pierced by firelight,
shifting and shivering in the wind,
in the sharp unfocus of the season
disturbed by blustery weather.
We sleep in the open air; dreams come strong,
fragrant with cedar and damp earth:
dreams of owls and powdered moths,
of crickets and distant singing-frogs
all along the slumbering river.
The wind is dark in the tallest trees;
the morning will find us here.

Awaiting Tomorrow

[From: “The Last Journal of Gwyllyn"] 

If in your dreams you see me wandering
through ripe wheatfields, pensive, pondering,
alone and adrift upon an ocean of grain
golden and billowing under a threat of rain,
then sing out to me from your upstairs window,
intone a bright song while the sea-zephyrs blow,
that my thoughts in the turbulent twilight air
will be mingled with a music resplendent and fair
and so ascend arrayed with both gladness and sorrow
through clouds to the starlight awaiting tomorrow.

A beautiful sadness

[From: "The Last Journal of Gwyllyn"]

A beautiful sadness, a sorrowful joy,
there are no suitable words to employ
for rightly describing this looming desire,
this living catastrophe of bright gentle fire
which blazes in darkness and thick quietude
and thunders in silence and content solitude,
with a wordless wisdom from beginning to end
unseen yet beautiful, all sorrows to mend.

How soundlessly the sunlight falls

[From: "The Life of Saint Robert Southwell, Priest and Martyr"]

How soundlessly the sunlight falls
upon the wide world after rain,
unmeasured night and fevered pain,
dispelling gloom in woodland halls.
Dewdrops cling to eyelash wings,
and eyes once more see many things.

But the objects underneath the sky,
so dear before, appear quite strange,
all stricken with some peculiar change -
as silent as death they pass me by.
The things of earth, I must confess,
now seem empty and meaningless.

But a living call is on the wind,
a breath requesting willing price,
for many souls, a sacrifice,
as new leaves shake and branches bend.
A courage swells for what may come,
be it blade or noose of martyrdom.

The wind is fierce

[From: “The Last Journal of Gwyllyn”]

The wind is fierce in my thoughts today
sifting the thistles and tangled weeds,
scattering dry leaves and maple seeds,
and sweeping withered flowers away.

The air is fragrant with unseen rose,
with marigold, alyssum, and juniper,
honeysuckle, phlox, and lavender,
mingling as the morning glows.

Light is bright on the tender frond
and dew is lingering in the sun;
some new splendor has begun
with fierce wind blowing from beyond.

A fragrant minstrelsy

The starlight pierced the soundless sky
before the sun laid down its head,
beyond the hillocks burning red
with bands of small birds passing by.

A fragrant minstrelsy was hung
on winds blown from a distant land
where turquoise waves sift diamond sand,
where all is fair and ever-young.

Where apple-blossoms in the sun
are stirred by every gentle breeze,
by music in the blooming trees,
by ancient arias just begun.

And with the sun now gone to sleep
and dreaming of another day,
the world in shadow fades away
as stars their quiet vigils keep.

There shines a fair road

[From: "The Last Journal of Gwyllyn"]

Subtle yet certain, there shines a fair road,
a gossamer thread, a thin golden hair,
weaving its way up through branches and stars
and bidding me to follow - and yet do I dare?

For once on that way, the things of the earth
would be drained of their vibrant color and taste;
and what would life be in such a strange world,
in such an insipid and grey-muted waste?

But behold! what a blessëd and glittering light
shakes down the filament from its farthest end,
from beyond the splendors of this fading realm,
from the fount on which all splendors depend!

And taking a step onto this fairest of roads,
I find that the footing is solid and secure;
and so, with the beckoning light in my eyes,
I run to it headlong, the way being sure!

Drawing Near

[From: "The Last Journal of Gwyllyn"]

Between the grinding gears of life,
in the very midst of strife,
there comes a sense of quiet here,
drawing drawing drawing near.

The blinding brightness of the day
begins to dim and fade away;
a darkness comes, bereft of fear,
drawing drawing drawing near.

A shadow-silhouette is seen,
eclipsing every earthly sheen;
enduring love and peace appear,
drawing drawing drawing near.

Anna-Maria

[From: "The Last Journal of Gwyllyn"]

Never was Anna-Maria more beautiful
than when she gazed on the twilight sea,
in the spring of her life; when a lonely gull
cried aloft in the tumbling wind; when she,
heedless of gusts in her unfettered hair,
let saltwater fall from her blue eyes there.

The waves, each draped with a white wedding veil,
bowed low as they came in procession ashore,
and hushed their fair voices near a maiden so pale,
so beautiful and wistful, so pitiful and poor.
The golden sands shifted beneath her bare feet,
and stars began blooming, the nightfall to greet.

Awakening

[From: "The Lost Writings of C. James Gwyllyn"]

Awakening, as if from death,
drawing in a full soft breath;
arising from the coffin-bed,
knowing I am not yet dead.
Light is on the shaking leaf
and in my eyes. The tender grief
grows mellow in the morning hour,
becomes a kind of joy, a flower
blooming in the hopeful spring,
glad of life, of everything.
Drops of rain fall in the sun,
glittering, golden, every one.

A Lovely Muse

[From: "The Last Journal of Gwyllyn"]

Melancholy is a lovely muse,
and a welcome houseguest after all;
I will hearken to her tender call,
her visits I will not refuse.

A twilight wind through many leaves
precedes her knocking at the door,
like gentle waves upon the shore
while the ocean under moonlight heaves.

A maiden young, but growing old,
with a wistful smile, but shining bright;
her grey eyes brim with glad starlight
glimmering through the quiet cold.

She stirs the woodland of my mind
with many fair and whispered words;
I hear the songs of many birds,
for a time I leave the world behind.

And from these visits she makes to me,
I have learned that it is not so bad,
to be profoundly happy, yet a little sad,
and to live life thus, contentedly.

She has made me see the world anew,
with potent splendors under light of day,
and at the same time watch them fade away,
unhindered by all we could say or do.

She has taught me to listen to the song
that these things sing before they go,
something they would have us know,
that Here you will not tarry long...

...your yearnings pull you far away
from this dark world; what here you love
will never last; O look above
where night will soon be endless Day!

Windowpane

[From: "The Last Journal of Gwyllyn"]

I behold the world from far away,
as through a window; the light of day,
subdued behind a mountain chain,
can scarcely pierce the windowpane.

The milky heavens, drained of gold,
at times send raindrops, fierce and cold;
the wind speaks to the sleeping trees
of distant winter tragedies.

A river of starlings hurries past
on some grand quest; they briefly cast
their fluttering shadows on the ground,
then pass away without a sound.

Night is creeping across the grass,
the world slips further from the glass;
a candle is lit within the room
against the swiftly gathering gloom.

Floating

[From: "The Last Journal of Gwyllyn"]

Floating out into the ocean sky,
the golden blue, the open eye
beholding all things on the earth,
ascribing to each but little worth.

A great and glittering teardrop there,
suspended in darkness, shining fair,
with the joys and griefs of everyone
falling and falling around the sun.

With blending hues and brittle lights,
with shifting clouds upon the heights,
the furious clamorings of the day
serenely burn, then fade away.

A hidden holy light

[From: "The Last Journal of Gwyllyn"]

When the voice of the world, with its empty muttering,
grows mute; when in the sunlight I begin shuddering
from a curious fever; when all the things that I love
compel me to be quiet and stare absently above;
not at clouds, or the sun, or the wide void of blue,
but at nothing, yet somehow at everything too;
not thinking one thought, not speaking one word,
with just the silence behind all things being heard;
where peace unassailable, and joy clear and bright,
with love shine forever in a hidden holy light.

As I now breathe

[From: "The Last Journal of Gwyllyn"]

As I now breathe, I remember the world
when it shone bright, was gilded, pearled;
when silver were the swollen drops of rain
which fell like stars on the golden grain;
when trees danced glad, and the ancient moon,
when not so ancient, brought afternoon
to the shade of night; when mountains aloft
with hoar-heads shining, scraped the soft
and airy dome, which brimmed with wine,
decanted when the sky-gem rose to shine;
when gold of morning brought forth a song
from folk emerging in gladsome throng,
the citizens beholding with glittering eyes
the good world beneath the blazing skies.

The music of silence

[From: The Last Journal of Gwyllyn]

The music of silence fills the air
with a hushed and hidden minstrelsy
from far beyond the Farthest Sea,
from a continent bright and fair.

And in the darkness, light is seen
though veiled behind a shadow-cloak,
a robe of thundercloud and smoke,
obscuring its golden sheen.

But for now, the dark and silent night
embraces the soul in solitude
which awaits with patient quietude
the advent of morning light.

A ghost is in the apple grove

A ghost is in the apple grove,
a midnight shadow on the wind,
behind the house, in a gated cove
where fruitless branches shake and bend.

And a fragrance comes up from the sea
of cinnamon, clove and rosemary.

A raven watches from the wall
in calm repose, with gleaming eye;
from yonder wood his fellows call
but to them there he will not fly.

The air is rich with thyme and myrrh
admixed with sage and juniper.

Wolves are howling at the gate,
beneath a sky without a stain;
a candle-flame is burning late
through an upper windowpane.

Spikenard, mint are on the breeze
still shaking through the apple trees.

A dream

I dreamed of a deer, robust and tall,
with oak-branch antlers hoisted high;
his new leaves swung in gladsome winds
and glittered beneath the springtime sky.

He strode up to a rocky height
and viewed the world in morning light.

A green fire blazed upon the hills
bestirred by soft and whispered words
which told the tales of summer joys
that fill the hearts of singing-birds.

The sylvan realm had breadth and scope
which burgeoned bright with living hope.

But the beast grew solemn when the sun
reached its zenith-height at noon;
he shook his leaves, now touched with red,
and beheld an early-rising moon.

A coldness laced the golden wind;
he knew the day rushed to its end.

A pale fire smoldered in the west
as leaves and acorns from him fell.
A hoar-frost gathered on his coat
and he laid down in the twilight, frail.

He lowered his white and weary head,
with branches bare, and soon was dead.

I awoke with the sun ablaze in the sky
bursting anew with its joyful face;
glittering golden on many leaves
and filling the day with boundless grace.

Spring was bright, the sky was blue
and light was on the morning dew.

Suspend the stars

Suspend the stars, serene and bright,
around the moon with silver strings
and crown the trees like lofty kings
who rule in peace the realm of night.

Perfume the air with scent of pine
and send out moths abroad to dance
on powdered wings to find, perchance,
some blooming phlox or columbine.

Then stir the wakeful nightingale
to intone her fair and wistful song
and induce the stars to sing along
so to bid the setting moon farewell.

Elixir

[From: "The Last Journal of Gwyllyn"]

The light of morning grew apace
and filled the chalice of the sky
with golden elixir for the eye
to brighten and heal with quiet grace.

A foul flood from the hills was streaming
turbulent in haste over many stones
in deep vales where a dark wind moans
until it appeared under daylight gleaming.

The taints of wormwood were then made sweet
and the cataract-clouds were dissolved away,
as when night yields to the flame of day
and the winter chill to the summer heat.

And at last when the torrent found the sea
and in quietude glittered clear and bright
beneath a calm and golden light,
the eye closed in tranquility.

The heavens of Atlantis

The girl stood placid and fair
in a desolate sort of way,
like the streets of Carthage
or the ruins of Pompeii,
gazing out upon the ocean
with her saltwater eyes,
upon the heavens of Atlantis
shining under the skies.

The Machines! the Machines!
now drowned and decayed
in their many-pillared temples
thrown down and unmade!
No more incense offerings,
no more nectar libations,
no more lofty choruses
of sweet supplications!

The seabirds are restless
and wail in the wind;
the sand-grasses rattle,
they shudder and bend.
The tide is now swelling
across the black shore;
the girl turns from the waters
to gaze on them no more.

In the throes of solitude

[From: Journeys at Eventide]

In the throes of solitude,
discerning elvish runes
hidden among the leafless branches
twining beneath the moons.

Beneath fair silver Änanfël
sailing out of the west
on sundered waves with star-spray
glittering upon each crest.

And also golden Ixilthwë
arising from the east
in vestiture of blazing clouds
as solemn as a priest.

At middle-night, the twain shall meet
in an alchemy of light;
the priest will board the shining ship
as stars burn golden-bright.

The trees will sway their barren limbs
toward the meeting moons,
and sleep will come in the mingled light
under a canopy of runes.

Wandering an acre of the world

Wandering an acre of the world
where magnolias wear mighty beards
and tall firs shiver in benighted winds,
where mist-ships sail upon a sea of stars
and hurry past on their secret errands -
you and I, with half-shuttered eyes,
behold the dusty porcelain moon
sinking behind a boxwood hedge,
and move pale lips to the stanzas
of deep and solemn winter-songs.

A joy like sorrow

[From: "The Last Journal of Gwyllyn"]

The world is brown beneath the sky
and stark against such vivid blue;
a fragile breath is shaking through
the barren branches stretching high.

The hills that dwell out in the west
are burning now with orange fire,
fading flames of another pyre
built for day at night's behest.

The first stars and the rising moon
witness the dying of the day,
the conquering of the golden ray
which blazed so radiant at noon.

But a joy like sorrow finds me here
and dawns on me in dim twilight;
the darkness shines with hidden light
and speaks with silence in my ear.

For now I know I was never the one
who sought to pierce the skies above
and who quested for eternal love:
in myself I would have not begun.

But seeking, questing, comes a bliss,
serene and simple in the night,
through the tangled shadow-light,
to give my weary soul a kiss.

Beyond the hills

[From: "The Last Journal of Gwyllyn"]

The hedgerows are silent, the gardens are grey,
the pageant of summer has faded away,
and cool gusts in the oak leaves sigh:
Even the loveliest flowers die.

Elm branches twine like wood-hag hands,
the geese flee south in solemn bands,
and blackbirds in their conclaves cry:
Even the loveliest flowers die!

And beyond the hills, a bell is ringing;
a hidden voice is softly singing
beneath a gathering grey-beard sky:
Even the loveliest flowers die.

In time of famine

[From: "Songs and Verses" by C. James Gwyllyn]

You feed me in time of famine,
you shine on me at night,
you come to me as hidden bread,
you come to me as light.

My fields are dark beneath the stars
and withered is the grain
from being bludgeoned by the sun
and forgotten by the rain.

O feed me in time of famine!
O shine on me at night!
O give to me your hidden bread!
O give to me your light!

silt-dust

[From: "The Last Journal of Gwyllyn"]

O what will the archaeologists find
sifting the silt-dust in my mind?
A monastery buried in the hills,
a cloistered box of cogs and wheels
left overnight in the pouring rain,
little souvenirs of forgotten pain:
a rusted half-penny, a twisted nail,
a toy sailing-ship without a sail,
beetle-leather armor and spider-silk,
an acorn goblet of moonlight milk,
wooden thoughts, wrought-iron dreams;
mansions built up with ryegrass beams;
white-onyx smiles, looking-glass eyes;
a clockwork crow that croaks and flies;
a rocking-horse rabbit, a porcelain frog;
an engraving of foxes chasing a dog;
some wild boar tusks, a skeleton hand
and an hourglass emptied of all its sand.

Bruised by shadows

[From: "The Last Journal of Gwyllyn"]

A strange quietude now invades me,
walking beneath these sleeping skies;
a silver tangled mist pervades me,
confusing old and wearied eyes.

Shadows mingle and night conceives
dreams and whispers, skin and bones,
entwining boughs of withered leaves,
a world built of such brittle stones.

Through pine-nettles, wind is seething;
beyond the mist, the moon is bright.
I wander farther, brooding, breathing,
bruised by shadows through the night.

fevered dreaming

metal shavings, braided wire
magma apples, ocean fire
fossil hailstones from the sky
sad clowns trying not to cry
foxes eating desert sand
a keyhole carried in the hand
the sun grown weary of the heat
bison running down the street
a sky full of silver polka-dots
bonfires of plums and apricots
the blinding beauty of the clam
an uncooked slice of Christmas ham
faces covered with many words
discovering that bees are really birds
a river clogged with wooden dolls
leaves falling over waterfalls
watching an acorn as it dies
watching an acorn as it dies...

I was missing you

[From: "Songs and Verses" by C. James Gwyllyn]

I was missing you
among the stars
and the golden moon
at nocturnal noon.
I was missing you.

 

I was missing you

out in the groves
of almond trees
touched by a breeze.
I was missing you.

I was missing you
beyond the clouds
all shining bright
in the morning light.
I was missing you.

These cornfields

These cornfields now are withered seas
teaching autumn mythologies
with crackling voices to the crows,
their credo as the cold wind blows.

The sun bows to the harvest moon,
the star-lights will be kindled soon;
the wind blows through the golden light
now fading fading into night.

These cornfields study in their sleep
and rustle parchments that they keep,
until the dawn when autumn glows
and once again they teach the crows.

Holding my breath

Holding my breath...and the memories remain
of moonlight on the waves and the sky without a stain
and flowers of night I had never seen before
shining blue and white as they bloom upon the shore
then fade away, then fade away.

The summers die before they have a chance to live;
the hourglasses spill, they have no more time to give.
Our feet were washed by the waters of the sea;
the sounds of falling waves and your laughter next to me
now fade away, now fade away.

I am leaving the sand spilled wide across the shore
where flowers of night will be shining nevermore.
But recalling the light and the beauty left behind
and holding my breath I find they linger in my mind
then fade away, then fade away.

In the ragged heath

Clouds in the west are piling high
like sea-foam on a vast ocean,
like cresting waves in slow-motion
washing across the autumn sky.

The oaks battle the undertow,
the birches whisper in the wind;
the alders burgeon as they bend,
waving druid-wands to and fro.

And like gypsy-orphans, you and I

lose ourselves in the ragged heath,
out on the moors which lie beneath
the silent breakers passing by.

Italia

Italia sits in the evening sky
with star-bouquets and indigo
as zephyrs from the ocean blow
a silver gondola drifting by.

The day had ended with a fire
upon the twining waters bright,
enkindled by the autumn light
and dying with serene desire.

The dark clouds, tired of making rain,
went to slumber in the east;
the night became a gentle beast
to carry us behind its mane.

Ascend we now to Roma fair,
a wilderness of colonnades;
cannoli and frozen lemonades,
cigars and Vespas everywhere.

But ancient steps are draped with dust
to museums never open late;
an old face glowers at the gate
of centennial iron caked with rust.

The trees are shedding almond tears,
dogs are running down the street;
the cobbled pavement hurts our feet,
the alleys stir up midnight fears.

The gondola arrives with silver glow;
we pay the man a handsome fare;
we slip then through the open air
and bid Italia addio!

Jumping the train of your thoughts

Jumping the train of your thoughts,
like a hobo, bedraggled and weary,
adrift upon rattling wheel-dreams,
sprawled in a boxcar under twilight,
with dying moths in the sawdust,
with yeast rolls and apple cores,
Indian Head pennies and peach snuff.
The trees are sifted by September;
a silo eclipses the swelling moon.
Old eyes open in the half-light
and watch as unfamiliar sceneries
pass by like clean mountain streams
after the first great thawing of spring.

How sudden sunlight shakes

Of course she does not realize
how sudden sunlight shakes,
like golden veins of lightning,
through antiquated stonework,
through battle-wearied walls,
at a smile of clear-eyed joy,
striking with acute enchantment - 
a ruin of bliss! in gladness straying
over silver-beaded grasses
into hushed and hidden gardens
ablaze with blooming florettes,
the fairest of lanterns shining
in all the encircling world!

To Anna

[from: Joy Beneath the Battered Moon: The Complete Writings of Gwyllyn]

 

I wish I could make this world as full of radiant light

as beautiful and as pure, as happy and as bright

as it now seems to you in your childish sight
untouched by the tainted shadows of night.

She sleeps under a Rackham tree

Her eyes are tired, they close unbidden,
the moon by tattered rags is hidden;
a breath of cold air moves the leaves,
a lonely night-dove gently grieves.

The Rackham tree is reaching down
with crooked arms and troubled frown
as if to guard the sleeping child
from the world now dark and wild.

Broadway

Let silence smooth away
the fault-lines and furrows,
the riven hillocks between
curious strangers in the sun,
stepping on paper trash and
shouldering the hot wind. We
emerge with empty clockwork
faces, hiding trembling little
souls, flames leaping up from
candlewick lives, past crumbling
art nouveau cornices into the
great blue wilderness of heaven.

Late in the Day

Broad grasses like holy emeralds shine
and breezes bestir the poplar and pine,
while clouds with painterly skill are arrayed
across a canvas of shimmering jade.

What charms now bid my mind to turn
and gently coax my heart to burn?

Skeleton leaves and cypress seeds,
putrid flowers and beautiful weeds,
robins and sparrows, leaping squirrels,
sandstone fossils of angels and girls.

What dreams now lull my soul to rest
from dying days and weary quest?

The birds and trees are falling asleep,
the squirrels no longer climb and leap.
The bright jade sky now turns to grey
and in shadows the emeralds fade away.