Snow-tears

Snow-tears are soft upon the cheek
beneath a brittle porcelain moon;
delicate griefs of nocturnal-noon
falling into a gladsome creek
that wends off through a shadow-wood
conversing of all things fair and good.

Moon-peaks are luminous in the sun
draped in blankets of alabaster dust;
the clouds in the east are turning to rust:
the bonfire-bloom of dawn has begun.
But snow-tears still fall with quiet charm
and soft on the cheek they do no harm.

O! to breathe the blessëd air

[From: The Last Journal of Gwyllyn]

O! to breathe the blessëd air
full of pearl and blazing gold,
of juniper and marigold,
on distant islands ever-fair.

The sundering waves surge like hills
crashing down to very hell,
with deeps that teem with krakens fell
- but hark, the song of whippoorwills!

Rising soft above the fray,
a song no tumult could defile
from a blissful garden-isle
blooming out in Ever-Day!

O! for wings to hasten there,
across the wide and surging sea,
to find the fair birds calling me
from the bright and blessëd air!

Weep for beauty

Weep for beauty while it gleams
bright and holy in the world;
attend in gladness while it seems
the shadow-flag of night is furled;
in waking dreams of diamond-eyes,
of distilled roses in the veins,
of bursting sunfire in the skies
falling bright like gilded rains;
of oceans churning wild at noon,
of twilight calm and cobalt-graced;
of joy beneath the battered moon,
of breathing zephyrs apple-laced;
of ruddy warmth in marrow-roots,
of spirits quickened into flame
by banqueting on blazing fruits
swelling ripe without a name;
weep for beauty while it sings,
and joyful tears will wash away
the veil that daily duty brings
and fling new light upon the day.