Wednesday, July 22, 2009

Three Poem Drafts


Dream said to me, "Come hither
for the day has begun to wither
and air on the moorish heather
is gloaming toward the night."

But I said, "I know not why,
but I feel that tonight I will die;
the crescent now waxes on high
and unseelie is its light."

Yet I heard the sultry tune
of that unreal, banshee moon
and fell into a swoon
with scarce a feather of a fight.

A green and silver dream
rose up without a seam;
it stripped the sky of gleam
and I died.

Cicadas Soon Will Sing Me Home

Cicadas soon will sing me home
to the land of summer dreams
where heat and humid air combine
to make things other than they seem;
they weigh my eyelids down and down
with gentle rattle-lullaby,
rhythmic like a mesmer's voice,
while sun and sleep both cross the sky.


The Lord roars forth from Zion;
can you hear the roar of the lion
when the lion has no prey?
Can you hear the roar of the Lord
and your heart not melt away?
Who molds the mount and makes the wind,
who makes the mortal man his friend,
but turns to darkness morning light,
and full of fire, free of blame,
treads upon the highest height --
the Lord is his most holy name!
He turns to darkness brightest morn,
who made the stars on high be born,
who calls the waters of the sea
and pours them to infinity,
from age to age the ever-same,
the Lord of hosts his holy name!
He with a touch can melt the earth
and bring the world to mourn
and cast the land out, beaten, torn,
and robbed of everything of worth;
he calls out to the tidal sea
from highest height's eternity,
the Lord, the Lord his name!

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