Peace hath an altar there. The sounding feet
Of thunder and the wildering wings of rain
Against fire-rifted summits flash and beat,
And through grey upper gorges swoop and strain;
But round that hallowed mountain-spring remain,
Year after year, the days of tender heat,
And gracious nights whose lips with flowers are sweet,
And filtered lights, and lutes of soft refrain.
A still, bright pool. To men I may not tell
The secrets that its heart of water knows,
The story of a loved and lost repose;
Yet this I say to cliff and close-leaved dell:
A fitful spirit haunts yon limpid well,
Whose likeness is the faithless face of Rose.
Leave a guest comment (subject to review)
Comments
1 - 5 of 5
-
We all do still have a bit of the old' into us even today. Nice one I did enjoy it
-
Wow- this poem is amazing! Eloquent and beauitful.
-
This blew me away! the poem is almost like a balm, a haven even for the soul who has become low because the knees wobble beneath the stresses of what life has lain at their feet.. these words you have written bring that conclusion to my mind.
The sounding feet
Of thunder and the wildering wings of rain
Against fire-rifted summits flash and beat,
And through grey upper gorges swoop and strain;
however, the first line of your first stanza shows me that amidst the darkened clouds that are on the horizon, there is still a solice to be found, a haven of peace where one could crawl for comfort.
Peace hath an altar there.
Your word choice is very good, the old English style of writing is befitting for your theme and for the emotion you have here written of.
Well Done! I truly enjoyed reading this.
~Katie~
-
amazing, without a dout. the declining nature of the poet truely speaks of times of suffering and pain. the struggles are shown through wonderful aprallelism.
i salute the poet.
~~ille -
I liked the rhyme scheme. This was a good poem You guys on OP what's the style called?
Adding your comment:
1 - 5 of 5
