For you, my lover and my friend,
this Maiden made of light green hair,
feathered fronds of fan-shaped leaves,
and fineness of its thin, dark stems.
Famed maiden-name of maidenhood
is formed in misty woodland wood.
I would you have this gift so green
I found along a rippling stream
to shade your face in summer's heat,
or place in vase with Queen Anne's Lace.
Act 2, Scene 4.
The Salisbury plain. Within a henge, a watchfire burns. The Seer approaches The Seeker.
Take heed, my friend, our part in cosmic cheat
Plays on; below the stage the truth lies quite.
Hold off the blazing sun's firstfound deceit,
Trust only in the filtered lunar light.
Maids long for wifely pleasure while wives cry
For their lost maidenhood, each of a date
They'd cast away; while Fate presides on high,
With ever laughing countenance it waits.
Mere mortal men lie dreaming all bewitched;
They ken not of the ruse nor hollow fake
Which gods employ on them, their eyes bestitched,
Awash in hope shown false if they would wake.
Unknowing we are born, Illusion's tide
A ceaseless pull, until the great divide.
"The Lassie Who Can Blush"
By Rachel Heffington
I would give many a dollar,
I would give a golden thrush,
If you showed me really, truly,
A young lass who still can blush.
There are many "happy" women
Who have laid their values bare,
Who parade in shameful clothing
That low men might think them fair.
But the kind of girl I notice,
Isn't one who's in a rush,
Not a girl who's bold and brassy,
But a lassie who can blush.
A blush is colored innocence,
The rose of modesty,
The proof of wholesome maidenhood
Through endless history.
And oft I smile to myself
As I catch a tell-tale flush,
"There's still a precious group of them-
Those lassies who can blush!"
I would give many a dollar,
I would give a golden thrush,
Just to see old-fashioned sweetness
Of a lass who still can blush.
Slush of remaining snow
Mocks the glee of the day it fell
Like an old prostitute her first dream
Of maidenhood
The view doesn't move
Fixed with rusty nails
Of stars
And you say to yourself how nice it must have been
For the ancients
Thinking that the universe revolves around us
People gather in sheds
Cars, houses, clubs
On TV screens
The President says something about a possible war
Quietly, without emotion
Like telling us that tomorrow
He'll walk his dog
Undying others die
And unborn others are born
We speak of nonexistent things
And there are always things we don't talk about
Will we ever learn
The simple craft of living?
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