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....)***
Copyright © Keith O.J. Hunt | Year Posted 2015
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