AFTER Near Helikon by Trumbull Stickney ( Guardian)
A
query of introspection
Whither is the mood? Whither my favorite
Mountain song and ranges, where memory
hangs still a canopy unalloyed and
steadfast;
At the end of cool summer’s day, when at times
Pockets go dry and wry, Muse at your beck and call
Sits by the shore and sings along a
lonely way,
Hymns
and odes sky and wheeling surf
Roll ever the sands and moon shines. My troubled
Life hums again on the mosaic of the past
Where opulence and glory pouring in.
Like many thoughtless and more on
spending spree,
me too; failed to catch the Riches by
forelock;
still ringing the parrots and peacocks
dance
on the tall woody branches; dilapidated house,
where ghosts supposedly haunt still, the
lone girl
shuts the window opposite the grilled house.
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