Thomas S. Jones Jr.

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Thomas S. Jones Jr.

The Unicorn

Roses grow reddest through a briery hedge,— There baffled hunters, pierced by barb and thorn, Behold, far off, the silver Unicorn, Flame-like and still upon a mossy ledge ; Lilies bloom whitest at the water's edge,— And there, with starlight on His crystal horn, At orange evening and at amber morn He drinks amid the pooled and purple sedge. Lost in the wood of time His hunters roam : Wild, virginal, aloof, with horn of fire And silver hooves He gleams beyond their spears ; But in the heart's hid Garden is His Home — Where roses redden through a wall of brier, Where lilies whiten with the dew of tears.

Thomas S. Jones Jr.

Truth

A breath of beauty blown through Spring's green bowers, The glory of a rainbow in the spray, The first ethereal rose when waking day Smiles through a fragrant mist of dreaming flowers; Or in the west, the visioned ivory towers Seen but a moment as clouds drift away, A gleam of water where the willows sway, A far-off song between warm summer showers. A leaping flame upon blue midnight hills, A star that trembles in a vapory veil, A flash of gold-lined wings, — so pure, so high Is Truth; so rarely seen, a swift glance fills The soul with radiance, as when the frail New moon's white shadow lights a fading sky.

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The Hill-Top

A windy hill-top and one ragged tree Sombre against the sunset's yellow stain, And in the air the freshness of spent rain And damp dead leaves that drop continually; While far below, in soft tranquillity, Meadows with golden waves of ripened grain, A winding road, a disappearing wain, And marshy pastures sloping to the sea.

The earth grows silent as a moon of fire Moves slowly up the calm awaiting skies; Beneath a silver veil the waters gleam ; Nature breathes beauty, yet the soul's desire Turns ever to the unknown land where lies The white immortal City of its dream.

Quatrains 5

Nothing is judged according to its size,— Between the great, the small, Love sets no bar, And in the violet's purple incense lies All the immortal wonder of a star.

Quatrains 8

As from the rising moon a single beam Of trembling silver sinks through moving walls Of dim green water, so the immortal dream Of Love Eternal on the spirit falls.

Quatrains 15

For Hope is like the winds that lightly blow Out of the lingering sunset's golden bar, Lifting the woodland's wealth of leaves to show The shining wonder of the evening star.

Primavera

Rustle of rain, bird-song and fitful breeze, And flower-like dancers, faerie shapes that seem Dryad and faun, beneath whose pale feet gleam Vale-lilies, violets, anemones; Here glides a nymph the satyr cannot seize, Diaphanous as dawn her garments stream — Elusive, luminous, an April dream, She fades through orange and white myrtle trees.

And yet how wistfully the dancers cling; And what vague weariness these spirits wear, Scattering wild-rose petals as they pass: Is it for Youth's short dream — the dream of Spring, Lovely as Flora through rain-scented air, Fleet as the dryad over rose-strewn grass?

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