The Poet

I have gazed long at the turbulent while piled high cloud masses I have watched the millions of stars at night the damp fog has come and surrounded me and the land is silent the fresh rain has laved my face while the wind blew warmly. I receive no message from these for humankind but hear only their message to me; for they awaken the wonder that is in me in addition, the yeaning that is the depth of my soul. They do not tell me to scatter my words through the world like seeds rather, they say, Behold! be of us and wing out beyond the world forever and in my soul the deep yearning pleads for the fulfillment of its' aching desire to go with the sun, moon and the stars and seek with them the answer to eternity. But still the clouds, ebon faced, mass against the fiery red rays of the setting sun the stars, far distant, in space, still glitter brightly in the patterns the fog, white by day, grey by night moves yet noiselessly on, giving intimacy to near things, and strangeness to those looming on the edge of vision the rain falls yet too, cleansing and releasing the perfume of the wet earth. So I write letting the words of my unrest go freely where they would for each word is deflection from the longing within me of all the voices I must heed and may not. However, I cannot write in the dark I cannot write as I stand on the hill gazing yet the yearning is there most of all therefore! I say aloud, convincingly "It is only lovely" to wander on through the night and day and the years.