I shall arise yonder beyond the pale
in the shade of the wild sycamore tree.
I’ll share the breeze with the mountain sylph
in high panacean majesty.
The roistering wines of the debonair
howl nothing but the tongues of waste.
The barren marrow of hollow boasts
to sobriety, to self-abase.
Cantering hither to the vernal morns
the wanton chords of harmony.
Fair choristers, maids to masters rush
to the shade of the wild sycamore tree.
His chortles ever toll the bell,
with dust it lingers till the dead of day.
Through the louvred roofs on ancient towers,
in matinal smoke it succumbs to May.
The porous skin of ancient thought,
filters nought but selfish gain.
The culprits sought the shade to be
where shadows veil the darkest stain.
When frost to perfect dew abounds
and thaws anew on the morn of day.
The cold refrain of winter’s chant
will flee on ice in the month of May.
No sake in bespeaks of bygone throes,
on the beaten shards you cursed with me.
Though slaughtered I served the only rose
in the shade of the wild sycamore tree.
To the charnel house, to ushered seats;
the naked bones of the flightless flock.
The winged fossils of scavengers,
embedded in that time of rock.
I shall arise yonder beyond the pale
and allow the merry minstrels be.
In verse they hail the feathered flights
to the shade of the wild sycamore tree.