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Dreamy, Rolfe Humphries, in English Clear filters

DreamyRolfe Humphries

The Discovery

"A unicorn!" they cried, "A unicorn!" And all came running. Noble and austere, He took their stare, their curious gaze, and morning Ran through their veins like cooler fire, like air All green with earliness. No purer white Ever in any snow by moonlight shone, An absolute and incandescent brightness From hoof to horn. A thousand flowers were fire Around him where he halted, flesh and bone, Survivor of the cast of any spear. Forsaking all the ardor of the hunt, They were content with watching him. He stood Below the red and golden fruit, confronting Their stir, their daze, with majesty. The shade Was light, subdued, and there was music here Like bloom, or light, or running stream of sound
DreamyRolfe Humphries

After the Ice-Storm

After the ice-storm, bundled in coat and muffler, And putting my feet down cautiously and slow, I turned aside for a broken branch of poplar Fallen across the snow. Out in the street, where the branch was twig, I noticed Something I had to stop for, look at twice, A long green bud, enlarged in brittle crystal, Encased and sheathed in ice. Of course I knew the buds were there in winter, But my poor observation had not seen When I looked up at them on other mornings How far along, how green, How almost leaf they were, in February! I broke the twig, and held it in my glove, Rebuke to carelessness, to study closer, To learn from, and to love,
DreamyRolfe Humphries

Excellently Bright

Quicker than hazel wand The moon discovers water Lifts it from underground Running or still To stir in the light wind All quicksilver. All that brightness Loosed from the hold Of ground and of shadow Lovers and angels praise, Silver and running gold, Holy, holy, holy.
DreamyRolfe Humphries

Bird Song

Under green I have seen A girl below a linden tree Chicory Tall as she All along a summer lane Color clear Quick and pure And a silver-age refrain Vidi Viridi Phyllida sub tilia.
DreamyRolfe Humphries

Variation on a Theme by Francis Kilvert

The Welsh harp has no silver string, And it is played on the left shoulder. And the harpers all are older Than the counsellors of the king. And they are becoming rare, Those gray and bearded men With young hands and long fingers, But every here and there, By glade or coombe or glen, One of them lingers Remote from all known ways Save those that music clears Through ash and sycamore To the door of their dwelling. Whenever one of them plays, Whoever hears him hears
DreamyRolfe Humphries

Harp Music

Softly, let the measure break Till the dancers wake, and rise, Lace their golden shoes, and turn Toward the stars that burn their eyes. Softly, let the measure flow, Float in silver, and follow. Softly, let the measure dwell Slowly, as the spell is wound Out and in, through space and time, While the sandals rhyme the round. Softly, let the measure stir, Lift, subside, and go under. Softly, let the measure prove The bright cadence moving there Changing, for unbroken dark, The illumined arc of air.
DreamyRolfe Humphries

Rhiannon's Air

I go my errand In my own manner: By land or water In my own way I go my quest And the light falls, lightly. And all my warblers Make such sweet music No man who hears Can be a warrior For eighty years And the light falls, lightly. Across the meadows, Through woodland shadows, By night or day In my own way
DreamyRolfe Humphries

"A Green Pride"

A green pride of green leaves Was all about that summer place, While the hour of the sheaves Waited, over the hill Whose pretence of being far, Far in time, far in space, Lulled and held summer still. Still, the flower was the flower, Not one petal falling. Motion left to the air, To the paper-thin veer Of the butterfly's going. A green pride of green leaves Over arbor, lawn, bower, And the hour of the sheaves, Even so, coming closer.
DreamyRolfe Humphries

Aberdovey Music

The bells of Aberdovey Sound from a buried city Sunken far under the sea, Heard when the nights are stormy And carried inland, faintly, As far as Montgomery. Hearken! Music of the lost Haunts that coast, all shadowy. And there could be voices there, Leagues and fathoms down, a choir Whose intoning reaches far Out along that lonely shore Up to ghostly cloud and air, Cadences profound and pure, Solemn choral, when the bell Has tolled the knell of the hour.
DreamyRolfe Humphries

Cycle

Bells in autumn Toll a rhythm Slow and solemn Calling welcome To the kingdom Of the lonesome. Can a sound throw Any shadow? The sift of snow Fills the furrow. Whose white arrow Fells the hero? No trace of her, Morning's daughter, Here or yonder. The pale watcher

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