And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
Trail with daisies and barley
Down the rivers of the windfall light.
And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
about the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
In the sun that is young once only,
Time let me play and be
Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsmen, the calves
Sang to my horn the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
and the sabbath rang slowly
In the pebbles of the holy streams.
-Dylan Thomas, "Fern Hill"
I love this piece...if you cut open my soul and looked on the outside of it's skin, this would be tattooed on the fabric of my memory. You could read it woven out of a hundred gasps at discovered beauty as a boy. fleeting minutes that were holy and end up seared into your desires and never leave no matter how many paved streets you are imprisoned out of necessity to walk. These places are easily read in the scars from adventuring that cover my aging flesh.
It's sad that the wounds that are more fresh and visible are the results of lesser things. Oh for the splinter, the bruise, the bumps and the badges of exploration that only are awarded to the ones who are oblivious to tomorrow and were...kings of the moment.
1 comment:
I love this piece too, but not the one you mean; I had great difficulty understanding the poem, but after reading it three times I got it. On the other hand, your comments I immediately understood, and a more eloquent description I have not read.
Love Dad
Post a Comment