The Death of Turpin
The Archbishop on swooning Roland gazed
and to his quick he felt the pang of grief;
he seized a helmet close at hand; his mind
was all to aid the knights, lest death he meet.
Not far, he thought, a river runs its course;
it flows with healing water cold, clean, and clear;
and with the helmet from that crystal deep
perhaps he could retrieve a balming drink.
He rose, unsteady, legs in tumbling sway,
all airy felt his head, and near to swoon.
A sudden ache like lightning pierced his brow;
his hand to head, he felt the flowing blood.
With step by slowing step, he walked, but faint
he felt, and might like shadows fled,
and forward down he went, in dreadful pain,
as, deathful, thus found Turpin paradise.
Early Night Scene
The cricket-sounds are dawning, bright with cheer,
as moths like dust in flurries float away;
the leaves are swaying softly there and here
as evening casts aside the dizzy day.
The grass is wet, as wind in breathing cooly sighs,
and little evening primrose, pink and fair,
in swaying dance like maiden fresh but wise
gives heed to cricket-courtiers gathered here.
Above, the sky with countless seeing gleams
looks down untroubled with its purple face
and, tearful, drops down misty bits of dreams
that settle on my head, and every place.
Wandering
Oh, I
am the fool who wanders lost
through the pain and bitter cost
as I search in hope
for you,
the sad sorrow in my sighs,
the truth amidst the lies,
my Muse who never dies,
till justice renders due,
and I,
though I weep for moments gone,
old remembrances of the dawn,
yet still I seek
for you,
who, a sun in heaven's sky,
my polestar and my why,
can give me wings to fly
with rightful heart and true.
