Distance and Silence
If distance dimmed the heart's fair fondness,
who would love the stars?
All beauty will we seek more deeply
who see it from afar.
And if their silence were obnoxious
to our waiting ears,
what poets would ever seek to catch
the music of their spheres?
For all that they do never sing,
their music fills our hearts:
their silence is but a negative
we transpose into parts.
The fairies are godlings Christ has tamed;
we know their haunts and speak their names,
we hear their whispers in the air,
and majesty and strength are there,
but never do we rise to pray
or sacrifice to keep their way,
nor ever do we bend the knee,
but stand before them, less but free.
Some may revere, but all are made bold:
we love them as loved tales of old,
rumors long-lost of an age of gold.
Wraith in the Mountains
Shines the moonlight down on the mountains,
Sings the wind through snow-laden crags;
Listen closely, can you not hear me
Echoing down into valleys below?
Words are not a means of expression
Able to sing the depths of my plaint;
Only the moonbeam cold and undying
Can ever record the tale of my woe.
Youthful hearts' love can die unavailing,
Deepest hopes can break on cold stone.
Waters pouring in falls from the mountains
Histories tell of this ominous woe.
Ever is too long for man to remember.
Ever years cover all minds and all hearts.
Sorrow alone speaks and always remembers;
Grief will yet linger beyond human heart.
See the moonlight shining on mountains;
Hear the wind sing softly on high;
All that they tell, beyond all recalling,
Lingers on here in hint and in muse.
Have you never in all of your far-flinging journeys
Moved past a scene great-burdened with time,
Knowing that somehow there once was a story,
Never yet knowing the tale for the feeling,
Words unavailing to capture the mood?
Shines the moonbeams bring on high summits,
Harping of wind pours through the cold stone;
Listen closely -- can you not hear me
Hinting my tale to the valley below?