home and very still
Tomorrow, at dawn, when fields turn white,
I shall set out, though mountains bar the way.
My eyes fixed on my thoughts, ignoring light,
I’ll walk alone into the breaking day.
For life is but a walking shadow, cast
Across the stage where grand old spirits tread;
I travel toward the clearing at the last,
To find the words you lived by and you read.
You held the giants in a well-worn spine,
Where Avon’s king met Guernsey’s exiled son.
You traced the heavy truth of every line,
And knew the drama when the play was done.
No more the troubled thoughts or worldly care,
No more the heavy cross of mortal breath;
A bouquet of green holly you will wear,
Beyond the phantom vales of life and death.
Under the wide and starry morning sky,
Now let the weary reader gently lie.
Glad did you live, and gladly did you die,
And laid you down beneath the open sky.
This be the verse we grave for memory:
Here lies the mind that climbed the highest hill;
Home is the sailor, home from stormy sea,
And the old hunter home, and very still.
.
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Author:
crypticbard (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: June 30th, 2026 06:06
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 5
- Users favorite of this poem: sorenbarrett
Offline)
Comments2
A most somber write my friend it bears the marks of classical literature both in content mentioned and in its own format. It has the feel of melancholy yet somehow wistful. It speaks as if from musty pages of an old book of memory. A most lovely write Cryptic and a fave
lovely balanced write my friend
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