ON A SPRINGTIME EVE - 1846
The festival, to all the saints now underway
as dark a night has fallen from an autumn day
and if you listen to the rustled breeze
you may hear voices somewhere in the trees
but never look for them--they're only there to play.
Two lovers in the night, that life has made amiss
and reaching out to take that first and bonding kiss
but then to be forbidden their desire,
though in their hearts it burned a constant fire,
the world of separationists refused them this.
But she was in his mind, and Sarah loved John so,
each time their eyes would meet, they never could let go,
and everyone was watching them until
they knew their love would overpower will,
for everyone resented love they couldn't know.
Her fathers madness, wrought from years of slavery
came to an evil, few had thought could ever be,
and he took to the whip he'd taken from
his masters hand, for love had surely come
to such a point, and John was bound, and made to see!
It was a Springtime eve, and you could hear the cry
throughout the foggy night, but love refused to die,
so town folk layed some timber to a fire
and bade them one more time, "reject desire..."
but in their eyes they cried, "we'd much rather to die..."
The flames consumed as if love spared them misery
so quickly was the end, it wasn't there to see,
and madness fell upon them, everyone,
who watched, it seemed the fire would not be gone,
and so they all jumped in for sake of agony.
And only love survived this horrid frightful night
you'll hear it in the trees, that is, you might,
if you've a mind to listen to the sound
of love that's true, and very seldom found,
but when it is, there's nothing else could be so right.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet