The Pilgrimage

The Pilgrimage
A Vagabond Collection Post

Awake for ever in a sweet unrest. ~ John Keats

Tales echo the pilgrimage, for fare
An exodus to sow, a death of pall
Not freedom trails, without liberty there
Where lava flows, a yoke-oppressing thrall.

Instead, turn clockwise, mount the mossy trail
Where Heliostat warms the position,
In sight shimmers pushing twilight to sail
Seas that share gifts without expectation.

Outliers shift ethics, left beyond right
Outside conundrums of pain, where psyche
Faces fear, does seeks Other’s guiding light
Lull the streams of sweet potential to be

Mark the mind, leave solitary prisons
Carving freedom from the weighty fear tome
Thawing of ice, dusting clarity prisms
Call of the soul sign to say you are home.

~ Leah Spence

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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© Leah J. Spence 2019, All Rights Reserved