Epitaph of a Wayfarer Poet
There remains an antique land of polished green dreams beneath a mist,
thick and clean, where great blue flutes in waves of wind sweep a waltz of Irish rain across a rocky plain, to plunder dreams in greens:
There came a lull from seven days of Irish rain
and though my boots still wet from journey’s gain,
this antique land yet plundered my dreams and on and on
I rambled down and round to where few had gone.
Around the quiet depths, a lake in mid July,
there did I meet a sight that drew me nigh
to it: a stone whose granite face quietly crept
from shadowed greens, then wan and white it wept.
I touched the worn words as I read their soft depths:
“He has out soared the shadow of all our night.”
I stood by its naked face as the shadows stretched out
to embrace the swift setting sun and I sat in the slim light
while the past wept in silent remembrance and forever etched doubt
upon my mind. Left only were the character and coldness of his fate
And in white stone the date: 1888.
The darkened waters spread out and the shadows crept all around.
The shadows crept all around crowned in sound.