Think not of this as poetry
Lest it loses its message;
But, perhaps, with some powerful oratory
It may yet have safe passage…
The mild wind will pluck more leaves from trees,
An old act of service; And on the ground,
brown leaves gather around;
And at some corners are more flowers, white, pink and pure purple robes
Which belong to the flagrant naked ladies blooming with fragrant funnels.
As duties attended the early hours of the season, perhaps,
did you for once stop to admire the fiery tops of little woodland realms?
And at some park, in the light of mood,
with some friends, have fun?
How few are the things we really need!
But, again, your feet will seek another path,
As you’ve often felt your heart flutter
At near or far off things which are your life’s course,
And you won’t cease-
No, you won’t cease-
from that cause; to speak in Art, to give life with words,
to offer however little service
to the forgotten ones.
But when the day is over, and all retiring;
When the mild wind will be blowing,
Somewhere outside a tree will stand naked in the cold
With a face lifted up,
It will wonder:
what makes the stars shine, and their opulence;
And at the yellow moon in some glowing ring, shining brilliantly;
Perhaps, if you should see it also,
you may perceive a higher power above ours.
And those stars, to me, as to that bare tree,
it seems, while they shine, they brighten the heart;
But you, Lanaire,
still shall outshine them eternally!