~ the pilgrimage

Awake for ever in a sweet unrest. ~ John Keats

Tales echo of the pilgrimage, where
Without this exodus, so lost in pall
Disease and decay in the shadows, there
Chipped away by the yoke-oppressing thrall.

Turn wise, the clock, moss signature to trails
Where Heliostat stoves warm opinion,
The shoreline does flourish in dawning sails
Upon the diamond sea, arisen.

To the arpeggio tune stormy nights
No rock face fangs barring the vining creeds
Let the thunder stir the wolf not to plight
Sweet earthy loam to nest the wayward seeds.

Rise up dynamic in shared baptisms
To carve away at the dominant tome
Thawing of ice, dusting clarity prisms
Moon lit buoys stand bravely guiding us home.

~ Leah J. 🕊

ode to melancholy

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
       Wolf’s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss’d
       By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
               Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
       Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
               Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow’s mysteries;
       For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
               And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall
       Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
       And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
       Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
               Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
       Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
               And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;
       And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
       Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
       Veil’d Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
               Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
       Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine;
His soul shalt taste the sadness of her might,
               And be among her cloudy trophies hung. ~ John Keats

~ namasté, Leah J. 🕊

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