Friday, December 23, 2011

Storm song

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The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift.


The road is forlorn all day,


Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift,


And the hoof-prints vanish away.


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The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,


Expend their bloom in vain.


Come over the hills and far with me,


And be my love in the rain.


The birds have less to say for themselves


In the wood-worlds torn despair


Than now these numberless years the elves,


Although they are no less there


All song of the woods is crushed like some


Wild, earily shattered rose.


Come, be my love in the wet woods, come,


Where the boughs rain when it blows.


There is the gale to urge behind


And bruit our singing down,


And the shallow waters aflutter with wind


From which to gather your gown.


What matter if we go clear to the west,


And come not through dry-shod?


For wilding brooch shall wet your breast


The rain-fresh goldenrod.


Oh, never this whelming east wind swells


But it seems like the seas return


To the ancient lands where it left the shells


Before the age of the fern;


And it seems like the time when after doubt


Our love came back amain.


Oh, come forth into the storm and rout


And be my love in the rain.


The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift.


The road is forlorn all day,


Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift,


And the hoof-prints vanish away.


The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,


Expend their bloom in vain.


Come over the hills and far with me,


And be my love in the rain.


The birds have less to say for themselves


In the wood-worlds torn despair


Than now these numberless years the elves,


Although they are no less there


All song of the woods is crushed like some


Wild, earily shattered rose.


Come, be my love in the wet woods, come,


Where the boughs rain when it blows.


There is the gale to urge behind


And bruit our singing down,


And the shallow waters aflutter with wind


From which to gather your gown.


What matter if we go clear to the west,


And come not through dry-shod?


For wilding brooch shall wet your breast


The rain-fresh goldenrod.


Oh, never this whelming east wind swells


But it seems like the seas return


To the ancient lands where it left the shells


Before the age of the fern;


And it seems like the time when after doubt


Our love came back amain.


Oh, come forth into the storm and rout


And be my love in the rain.


The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift.


The road is forlorn all day,


Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift,


And the hoof-prints vanish away.


The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,


Expend their bloom in vain.


Come over the hills and far with me,


And be my love in the rain.


The birds have less to say for themselves


In the wood-worlds torn despair


Than now these numberless years the elves,


Although they are no less there


All song of the woods is crushed like some


Wild, earily shattered rose.


Come, be my love in the wet woods, come,


Where the boughs rain when it blows.


There is the gale to urge behind


And bruit our singing down,


And the shallow waters aflutter with wind


From which to gather your gown.


What matter if we go clear to the west,


And come not through dry-shod?


For wilding brooch shall wet your breast


The rain-fresh goldenrod.


Oh, never this whelming east wind swells


But it seems like the seas return


To the ancient lands where it left the shells


Before the age of the fern;


And it seems like the time when after doubt


Our love came back amain.


Oh, come forth into the storm and rout


And be my love in the rain.


The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift.


The road is forlorn all day,


Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift,


And the hoof-prints vanish away.


The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,


Expend their bloom in vain.


Come over the hills and far with me,


And be my love in the rain.


The birds have less to say for themselves


In the wood-worlds torn despair


Than now these numberless years the elves,


Although they are no less there


All song of the woods is crushed like some


Wild, earily shattered rose.


Come, be my love in the wet woods, come,


Where the boughs rain when it blows.


There is the gale to urge behind


And bruit our singing down,


And the shallow waters aflutter with wind


From which to gather your gown.


What matter if we go clear to the west,


And come not through dry-shod?


For wilding brooch shall wet your breast


The rain-fresh goldenrod.


Oh, never this whelming east wind swells


But it seems like the seas return


To the ancient lands where it left the shells


Before the age of the fern;


And it seems like the time when after doubt


Our love came back amain.


Oh, come forth into the storm and rout


And be my love in the rain.


The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift.


The road is forlorn all day,


Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift,


And the hoof-prints vanish away.


The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,


Expend their bloom in vain.


Come over the hills and far with me,


And be my love in the rain.


The birds have less to say for themselves


In the wood-worlds torn despair


Than now these numberless years the elves,


Although they are no less there


All song of the woods is crushed like some


Wild, earily shattered rose.


Come, be my love in the wet woods, come,


Where the boughs rain when it blows.


There is the gale to urge behind


And bruit our singing down,


And the shallow waters aflutter with wind


From which to gather your gown.


What matter if we go clear to the west,


And come not through dry-shod?


For wilding brooch shall wet your breast


The rain-fresh goldenrod.


Oh, never this whelming east wind swells


But it seems like the seas return


To the ancient lands where it left the shells


Before the age of the fern;


And it seems like the time when after doubt


Our love came back amain.


Oh, come forth into the storm and rout


And be my love in the rain.


The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift.


The road is forlorn all day,


Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift,


And the hoof-prints vanish away.


The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,


Expend their bloom in vain.


Come over the hills and far with me,


And be my love in the rain.


The birds have less to say for themselves


In the wood-worlds torn despair


Than now these numberless years the elves,


Although they are no less there


All song of the woods is crushed like some


Wild, earily shattered rose.


Come, be my love in the wet woods, come,


Where the boughs rain when it blows.


There is the gale to urge behind


And bruit our singing down,


And the shallow waters aflutter with wind


From which to gather your gown.


What matter if we go clear to the west,


And come not through dry-shod?


For wilding brooch shall wet your breast


The rain-fresh goldenrod.


Oh, never this whelming east wind swells


But it seems like the seas return


To the ancient lands where it left the shells


Before the age of the fern;


And it seems like the time when after doubt


Our love came back amain.


Oh, come forth into the storm and rout


And be my love in the rain.


The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift.


The road is forlorn all day,


Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift,


And the hoof-prints vanish away.


The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,


Expend their bloom in vain.


Come over the hills and far with me,


And be my love in the rain.


The birds have less to say for themselves


In the wood-worlds torn despair


Than now these numberless years the elves,


Although they are no less there


All song of the woods is crushed like some


Wild, earily shattered rose.


Come, be my love in the wet woods, come,


Where the boughs rain when it blows.


There is the gale to urge behind


And bruit our singing down,


And the shallow waters aflutter with wind


From which to gather your gown.


What matter if we go clear to the west,


And come not through dry-shod?


For wilding brooch shall wet your breast


The rain-fresh goldenrod.


Oh, never this whelming east wind swells


But it seems like the seas return


To the ancient lands where it left the shells


Before the age of the fern;


And it seems like the time when after doubt


Our love came back amain.


Oh, come forth into the storm and rout


And be my love in the rain.


The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift.


The road is forlorn all day,


Where a myriad snowy quartz stones lift,


And the hoof-prints vanish away.


The roadside flowers, too wet for the bee,


Expend their bloom in vain.


Come over the hills and far with me,


And be my love in the rain.


The birds have less to say for themselves


In the wood-worlds torn despair


Than now these numberless years the elves,


Although they are no less there


All song of the woods is crushed like some


Wild, earily shattered rose.


Come, be my love in the wet woods, come,


Where the boughs rain when it blows.


There is the gale to urge behind


And bruit our singing down,


And the shallow waters aflutter with wind


From which to gather your gown.


What matter if we go clear to the west,


And come not through dry-shod?


For wilding brooch shall wet your breast


The rain-fresh goldenrod.


Oh, never this whelming east wind swells


But it seems like the seas return


To the ancient lands where it left the shells


Before the age of the fern;


And it seems like the time when after doubt


Our love came back amain.


Oh, come forth into the storm and rout


And be my love in the rain.





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