Upon a glade in Misty May
I came across these Charites, three:
each blossom bloom in holy singularity,
each gaze reflect a fix'd
innumerability.
Such subtle sloping of their shoulders
in supple stroking fed
from gently 'round their fertile forms to
infinitum ends; a point upon each
blessed womb in punctuated glory bound:
umbilicum mundi
from which the scenery expound.
Rolling fields of ample crop
adorned each comely crown,
from blank marble pale each brow atop
burst bountiful shades of honey brown.
From stoic poise to every way
root simple limbs
and idly'd sway,
born'd down from
the silver trickle of the stream
to huddled trees, hilltops away.
What is left there to behold
but those mind-abiding fields of gold,
cascades of light in eerie bright
bold blankets white upon those
sacred shapes that
silent bathed
in immortal purity?
What fool's so sped in his depart!
Bumbling on in light of heart,
that merry den had
sense confound:
Spotless in his certainty that yet
again it could be found.
What gleaned from rustling branches since
has my desperate search for Eden given,
but that finely woven wind
is yet graying in memoriam;
its fleeting warmth can only serve
as cruel suggestion of wondrous worlds:
a tarnished souvenir, impotent
paradise misplaced.
Then should I welcome misery's reign
when time reduces joy to pain?
When all the Earth can not return
the chirping worship of those birds?
How I lack that hallowed glade
that I found in Misty May!
Be found once more
I humbly pray,
the Trinity of Gratiae.
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