The Wanderer
Posted: Tue Aug 06, 2002 4:34 am
I may have already posted this before... forgive me if so.
________________________________________________
-The Wanderer-
If you happen to wake at the very hour,
When disappearing night,
Gives way to pastel morning's light,
And in the corners shadows cower.
When ground is wrap't with glistening dew,
Like shining sunlit crystal,
It hangs from every bloom and thistle,
And light breaks on the world anew.
When all the creatures from sleep arise,
On the emerald moor,
You may see the heartbroken pour,
Of tears, and hear her mournful sighs.
She, the wanderer, wanders still,
Not knowing any sleep,
Continually drifting in the deep,
Of lonely moor from gorge to hill.
Her pale locks frame her seeking eyes,
Her flitting form is slight,
No shadow she casts, but almost light,
Shines from her face, despite her cries.
Her face, though bright, is dimmed with weeks
Of wandering without rest,
And not one path she paced was blest
With showing her the way she seeks.
Not one right way there seems to be,
All roads she's walked have led
In a circle, back to ground she'd tread
Last night, and still no way sees she.
And we, like her, may soon arrive,
To where we cannot find,
A path which will make sense in mind,
But ever onward we must strive.
And as birds' voices fill the air,
Singing in the breeze,
And the rays of sun that slip through trees,
Trace leafy patterns on her hair.
She sees the way she longed for so,
Right before her eyes,
And when she takes it, to her surprise,
It leads her where she wills to go.
No more the wanderer seeks in vain,
On paths she knows are wrong,
I would that I could come along,
With her, and leave on shaded lane.
________________________________________________
-The Wanderer-
If you happen to wake at the very hour,
When disappearing night,
Gives way to pastel morning's light,
And in the corners shadows cower.
When ground is wrap't with glistening dew,
Like shining sunlit crystal,
It hangs from every bloom and thistle,
And light breaks on the world anew.
When all the creatures from sleep arise,
On the emerald moor,
You may see the heartbroken pour,
Of tears, and hear her mournful sighs.
She, the wanderer, wanders still,
Not knowing any sleep,
Continually drifting in the deep,
Of lonely moor from gorge to hill.
Her pale locks frame her seeking eyes,
Her flitting form is slight,
No shadow she casts, but almost light,
Shines from her face, despite her cries.
Her face, though bright, is dimmed with weeks
Of wandering without rest,
And not one path she paced was blest
With showing her the way she seeks.
Not one right way there seems to be,
All roads she's walked have led
In a circle, back to ground she'd tread
Last night, and still no way sees she.
And we, like her, may soon arrive,
To where we cannot find,
A path which will make sense in mind,
But ever onward we must strive.
And as birds' voices fill the air,
Singing in the breeze,
And the rays of sun that slip through trees,
Trace leafy patterns on her hair.
She sees the way she longed for so,
Right before her eyes,
And when she takes it, to her surprise,
It leads her where she wills to go.
No more the wanderer seeks in vain,
On paths she knows are wrong,
I would that I could come along,
With her, and leave on shaded lane.
