these are part of Caledon.

Coming out of the little ski cabin,
Under the first few stars
You will say:
"No; nor the green hills of Ireland Couldn't be lovelier!"

You Being Dead (For J. R. T.)

You, being dead, are not aware
That brittle berries strew the ground,
And how the wind, an unleashed hound
Prowls through the wood.

It must be very still and deep
Where you have gone; your gentle sleep
Must be a lovely dreamless thing.
No horns of daybreak reach your rest,
No muffled drums of midnight breast
Your dim retreat … and well I know
You would not stir, beneath the snow.

And yet the first lush rain of Spring
Must speak to you; must dance and sing
Across your heart, though it be still.
The scent of hyacinth must fill
The very earth, the birth of grass
Be like the feet of fauns who pass
In mocking masque among the trees.

Though you should walk elysian fields
I somehow know, that even there
You still must smell the apple trees …
Who found the spring so brief and fair!

Dilemma

You know,
If you were only a book
I'd know what to do about you!
I'd read you … and remember you …
And tuck you away on my book-shelves.

But since you are a bitter sort of magic
That twists me like a silly skein
To fit your latest picture of me
What am I to do about you?

Ah…
And even if you were a book
I should love you very dearly,
And carry you about with me
In my coat pocket,
Always!

Night Garden

Here is a silver star
Caught in the meshes of the moon.
It matters not.
Soon … soon … across the greeny darkness of the garden,
Still and sweet,
I shall hear in the mist of the evening
Your feet
You are coming to me!
The garden is drowned in a dream.
Only my heart is awake.
Hurry … hurry, beloved …
Lest it quiver, and break!

Some Quiet Day … Perhaps

Some quiet day, perhaps, when I am dead,
And this loud world is but a whispered echo
Through the dark, cool earth that spreads above my head,
I shall forget that I have ever known you.
Your kisses shall become inconsequent
As flowers and grass that grow above my grave,
Our moments shared shall crumble down to dust,
The ring upon my finger turn to rust.
There shall be nothing to remind me, then,
I shall know peace, unstirred by pain or song,
Turning my face to sleep, as children do,
Never to start awake and cry your name,
Seeking your arms to shelter me from fear
As I do now … this night … my very Dear!

Cloister

The young priest
Stood holding a small book in his hands,
Under a tree
Newly-stripped of its leafage.
He stood very still …
Remote,
The wind whipping his long robes
Into swirling darkness.
There behind cloistered walls
The war was unreal,
A distant dragon
Whose fiery breath
Was legend.
Just for a minute
The world stood still
Imprisoned in the pages
Of a small book.
There was healing in the sight,
The young priest
Reading words set down many centuries ago.
Oh soon, soon, let there be peace
Over the whole world
And the young men
Coming back to their books!

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