The Wicker House
Too often I have forgotten the nectar
of welcomed recollection,
Having been lazed out
in Sylvan grasses green,
lounging upon the footstool of the world.....
where the wood marries the wedded waters,
where the songster sings from his hooded perches ----
Where the dream is ripe,
with long, easeful melodies;
With wind chasing the swooning dapples....
A short sleep in the lilting sky for a pampered muse,
Could life be sweeter in some ghost-clap mansion hall?
where the forest doesn't whisper in the womb of a man's soul?
***(A plea for a swift arriving Spring/Summer....)***
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
