DINOSAUR DREAMS

As soon as I saw this wonderful illustration when browsing online several weeks ago, I knew that one day it would inspire me to write a poem – and today it has done, so here it is.

DINOSAUR DREAMS

Verdant but still is the path through the forest,

A study in sadness, in silence, in shade.

Its trail stretching on, its limit unending,

A realm with no gladness, no gleam in its glade.

Dead as a dinosaur, all my dreams done with,

Enveloped in verdigris, mould, and decay.

The past lies behind, its door closed and cloistered,

And as for the future? Who knows - who can say?

And so I plod on, alone and regardless,

'Midst trees, leaves, and bushes, viridian friends.

Their foliage beckons, soon to embrace me,

To take me back home when my journeying ends.

THREE YEARS AGO TODAY

Mom and I at the top of Sugar Loaf Mountain in Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, 2007 ((c) Dr Karl Shuker)

Yesterday I penned the following lines, marking the third anniversary of the passing of my dear little Mom, Mary Shuker.
God bless you, Mom, I've missed you so much during these three long, sad years, and I always will do, every moment of every day, through all the days of my life.

THREE YEARS AGO TODAY

Three years ago today, Mom, was the first time in my life that I reached for your hand but no longer found it there for me, ready to hold mine with its loving, comforting, caring touch, as it had always been in the past.

It was the first time in my life that I looked for your smile but no longer saw it there for me, ready to dispel any shadows of doubt with its loving, comforting, kindly reassurance, as it had always been in the past.

It was the first time in my life that I listened for your voice but no longer heard it there for me, ready to lift my spirit with its loving, comforting, cheery encouragement, as it had always been in the past.

It was the first time in my life that I sought you but no longer found you there for me, ready to stand beside me, to walk beside me, to share my life beside me, as you had always been in the past.

Three years ago today, Mom, was the first time in my life when the future no longer mattered to me, when the present no longer interested me, when only my memories remained dear to me, enabling me to return to you and relive our countless happy days, weeks, months, and years together, as there will always be in the past.

SANCTUARY

Seeing this lovely illustration online and the expression of sublime peace on the face of the fox, knowing that it was perfectly safe in this tranquil, magical place, made me think of how many ways can sanctuary be defined, and what sanctuary means to me, which in turn inspired me to write the following poem.

 

SANCTUARY

Where might I find sanctuary,

Somewhere safe, secure, serene,

Where I could once again be loved,

Cared for,

Cherished?

Like a vale of green mists and golden shadows

Where a fox can lie and linger,

Undisturbed and unthreatened, a haven of peace.

Like a realm of leafy trees and fragrant meadows

Where tiny birds can sing in joy,

Beneath Heaven's bright, resplendent dome of glory.

Like the sanctuary of a mother's heart

Where a child can live and be loved,

Knowing that here he will always be safe, will always be home.

THE STAG OF HEAVEN

I saw the above picture earlier tonight while browsing online, and its strange, melancholic beauty drew from me the following lines, which echo the solitude of my own existence.

THE STAG OF HEAVEN

Gently, calmly, in stately silence,
The hart of Heaven, the celestial stag,
Steps forward through the graveyard of my life.

Its leafy coat, grass-green amid the moonlight,
Flows like forest waves upon the lake,
And glows like living foxfire in my eyes.

Its antlers bear the promised buds of future years,
The dreams that may be mine in other days,
And I can only wait and hope and pray.

It passes from my sight, the land is dark,
No phosphorescent glimmer, the waters still and cold,
And I? Alone once more, as ever it shall be.

   

LIFE - THE INFINITY OF THE WORLD

How strange it is that whereas the seconds of our lives pass quite slowly, the minutes seem to go by faster, and the hours faster still, as our lives race ever onward to their conclusion. And yet as they depart, others commence – the one certainty in a world of uncertainly is that Life, in an innumerable multitude of forms, is ever-present.

LIFE - THE INFINITY OF THE WORLD

The throbbing fingers of a clock
Tick slowly by, ne’er ceasing,
Just as Time moves on forever,
Never stopping, never easing,
In its swift, eternal race
Through the vales of Outer Space.

Seconds trickle by like raindrops
In my life, so little being,
Followed closely by the minutes
As they chase, forever fleeing,
Through the heavens still and grey
In the silhouette of Day –

Like a windmill turning softly
Through a timeless, depthless pool,
As its orbit circles ever
Round its lone, immortal spool,
Till it sinks away to die
‘Neath the shadows of the sky.

Thus my life flits swiftly onwards
As the hours soon drop away
Like a host of cloudy phantoms,
Growing fainter every day,
Till at last their forms are gone,
And the Future marches on –

Like a journey hoping ever
For a journey of its own,
As its unknown dreams await me,
Each I meet but once, alone.
Then it’s gone, it cannot wait,
Nor can any ghost of Fate,

Till, to God, my soul turns humbly
On my final mortal day.
Metamorphosis is over,
And my spirit flies away,
To a Land of lasting Peace,
Where e’en Time shall find release.

A CALL FROM MY PAST

Some of the happiest days of my childhood were spent strolling through the fields and forests near my home. Today, many of those beautiful retreats are gone, paved over and lost beneath the ever-encroaching shadow of urban settlement, but I see them still in my mind’s eye, and there is no doubt that part of my essence lingers on in those green and pleasant lands of my youth.

A CALL FROM MY PAST

Back to the countryside’s
Still morning air,
Where grass softly sways, for
My heart remains there.

Small singing birds perching
On leaf-covered trees,
The sun shining down on
Small yellow-striped bees

That gather sweet nectar
From every wild flower.
Magnificent Nature,
For this is her hour.

The field-mice in cornfields,
The swans on the lakes –
All Nature’s perfections,
Not man-made mistakes.

And as I gaze fondly
On all that I see,
A child’s voice sounds softly,
It’s calling to me –

The voice of my childhood,
The laugh of a child
Who listened, and followed,
The call of the wild.

BORNE INTO TOMORROW

Strange as it may sound, this is one poem that quite literally wrote itself. There was no planning, no previous thought involved – I simply sat down one day with a blank sheet of paper and pen, the words came unbidden into my head, and I wrote them down, acting as little more than a thoroughfare along which the verses coursed, fully-formed, from my mind and onto the paper. If only all poetry were as easy to write!


BORNE INTO TOMORROW

The webs of Night draw back their gowns
As rosy clouds of Morning
Pass softly through the waking sky,
While still the sun lies yawning
Beneath a drape of starry sleep
From which the dreams of Evening peep.

But mine are dreams from far beyond,
Sent ever by the future,
Like golden keys to shrouded doors
Of Nature’s hidden sutures.
For these, my life must make its ways
Through shadow worlds and lightless days.

Alone I stand – my world has gone –
The past was mine, not present.
Now shades of Death lie all around.
As I – a humble peasant –
Move slowly through and ever on,
Until my dreams at last are done.

These worlds are strange, unknown to me,
For these I have no feeling.
And only stars may see my grief
From Heaven’s spangled ceiling,
As on I pass through sombre dawns
While e’er for Light my spirit mourns.

But I must bear my silent doom
In alien surroundings,
And suffer as the world demands
Of me – a lonely foundling,
With dreams for which my spirit lives,
For which my life I freely give.

And so, though oft my chosen way
Is dismal and despairing,
I must prevail through dark terrains
Within this world uncaring,
Through deathly vales where shadows loom,
Before my dreams can light their gloom.

Yet this is but a twilit zone
Of deep, forbidding sorrow,
Which all must e’er endure if they
Are borne into Tomorrow,
Until their dreams are each fulfilled,
As Destiny and Fate have willed.

But when at last my pathways end,
When dreams are dreams no longer,
My world will call, with songs of Peace,
My spirit – free and stronger.
And I shall go, and this will seem
To be at most a bitter dream.

YEARNINGS

'Sweet Dreams' (Elda The)

The wistfully innocent, delicately poignant, and potently nostalgic qualities of the above painting subtly combined and intermingled within my mind as I viewed it, until I found myself expressing my innermost yearnings in the following lines.

YEARNINGS

Ah...
For those long-vanished days
Of childhood, innocence, and optimism,
When everything seemed possible,
And the world was an exciting place,
Full of sweet promise and wonder.

DISMISSING CHILDHOOD

The ending of childhood and the onward journey through the teenage years toward maturity is never an easy passage. It is a time filled and fraught with doubt, confusion, and decisions about which pathways, in which directions, to take.

DISMISSING CHILDHOOD

Alone I stand, alone with Fate.
My shadow lies ahead, to wait
For me to come, perhaps too late.

My Past flits by, my Future grows;
I ask myself: “Which way to go?”
And answer still: “I do not know.”

Alone I stay, and softly sigh
To watch my childhood flutter by,
Then turn away, and wonder why.

My changing world through dreams I saw,
As onward e’er my thoughts they bore,
But now my dreams are dreams no more.

And now alone with Fate I stand,
Soon to be taken by the hand
And led away to other lands.

Yet what my Future hides away
‘Neath golden shades of unknown days
I cannot know, for who can say?

I only know that this must be,
Its light is not for me to see,
For this will be my Destiny.

WORLDS APART

The rich, evocative Oscar-winning melody written by Francis Lai as the main theme for the late-1960s movie blockbuster ‘Love Story’ lingered long inside my mind until at last, in sweet supplication, I penned my own lyrics to it, yielding the following poem.

WORLDS APART

Hours flicker by,
My world still orbits through the shadowed evening sky;
The mournful clouds far past my silhouette still fly,
As I sit thinking of where now my past life lies,
Still ne’er surpassed.

You I e’er recall –
My lifelong dream, consuming being, soul, and all –
You never knew Despair, you never knew a fall
From Fate’s fair favour, for you followed e’er her call
To everlast.

For your life was free,
More free, more real than mine could ever hope to be,
A life inspired by Nature’s realms eternally,
So that you ceased to notice Mankind’s worlds, or me –
Just shadowed casts,

Yes, I always knew,
That I was worlds apart from ever reaching you,
Your world was far beyond mine, sacred, strange, and true;
Yet still in dreams your smiling form comes flooding through –
Now is my Past.

AND FOREVER SHALL I WAIT FOR YOU

Age may weaken and ultimately defeat us, the world may change beyond all waking recognition, and the very universe may crumble into nothingness, but love never dies – when all else has vanished, love goes ever on.

AND FOREVER SHALL I WAIT FOR YOU

Though the trees may shrivel and the flowers all die,
Though the moon may vanish far beyond the sky,
Though the stars may shiver in a last goodbye,
I shall wait for you, though my being dies.

As the planets circle in the realms of Space,
And the fire-tipped comets in the twilight race,
I look through the heavens and I see your face,
And I wait for you, though my heart still cries.

I shall wait for you though worlds may come and go,
Though the seas have faltered and may cease to flow,
Though the birds have vanished many years ago,
Still I wait for you, on a bridge of sighs.

And when Darkness comes to fill my final day,
When my soul has wings and softly flies away,
To a Land afar, where every Night is Day,
My soul waits for you, ‘cross the endless skies.

REMEMBERING THE WOODLANDS

I have always loved the words of William Barnes’s lyrical poem ‘Linden Lea’, as set to music by Ralph Vaughan Williams. Listening to its evocative strains one day, and utilising the same verse form and metrical pattern per line, I composed the following poem, drawing upon the happy memories of many childhood walks of mine through the woodlands just a Sunday afternoon’s drive away from home.

REMEMBERING THE WOODLANDS

Deep in the woodlands, sunlight filters
Through the golden leaves and flowers.
And boughs curve softly, crowned with blossom,
O’er green ferns and shadowed bowers.
Small warblers lilt in dulcet song,
As celandines in bouquets throng,
Through dappled glades and sunlit pathways,
Past blue streams and fountains clear.

Sun-shadows mottle gnarled trees arching
O’er the leafy ground of gold.
And tiny daisies wake up slowly
As their petals pink unfold.
Here snowy clouds float through the sky,
While turquoise swallows circle by,
As morningtime transforms to noontide.
Now the afternoon is here.

Though days like these soon fade and vanish
In the misty realms of Space,
With only fragments of their wonder
Passing o’er my silent face,
Yet still I live in those fair days,
In Summer’s warm and blissful haze.
And as I sit, a dewdrop glistens –
Is it dew, or one lone tear?

MOTHER NATURE

Illustration by Michael Fishel

The personification of Nature, as Mother Nature, seemed an excellent theme for a children’s poem, so here is my impression of how she might be.

MOTHER NATURE

Mother Nature’s in her garden,
Weaving wings of butterflies,
Spinning threads of shining gossamer
From memories and sighs.

In her lap is sparkling stardust,
In her lap are sunbeams bright,
In her lap are moonlit crescents,
Radiating milky light.

In her hair are woven rainbows,
Mauve and lemon, blue and lime,
In her face is love and kindness,
In her eyes is endless Time.

She will change as she is noticed,
No-one ever sees the same.
They see only what their hearts do,
What they see no-one can name.

She lives in her favourite garden,
Maybe yours, or maybe mine.
It need not be royal or regal,
Where rare blossoms intertwine.

It could be a lowly backyard,
Only daisies growing there.
But if honest people love it,
Mother Nature will be there.

For her garden is where goodness
Lives in sympathetic minds
Filled with tenderness and kindness.
Yes, it’s here where you will find

Mother Nature – in her garden,
Weaving wings of butterflies,
Spinning threads of shining gossamer,
From memories and sighs.

NOSTALGIA

How strange and sometimes rather unsettling yet also very precious it is that a scent can suddenly recapture and restore memories of long ago that had previously seemed beyond recall.

NOSTALGIA

Yesterday, on a whim, I took out of their battered yet still sturdy leather case my old trusty but seriously scuffed and very heavy pair of Greenkat 10 x 50 binoculars,
long since replaced by a lighter, more modern pair.

But as I inhaled their characteristic scent,
a unique suffusion of leather and preservative crystals,
I was instantly transported back through time to those far-distant, happy days of my childhood.

And just for a moment it was a warm Sunday afternoon once more,
back in the Shropshire countryside with my family,
looking for birds and feeling truly alive again,
alive and happy in a way that can never be replicated in adulthood.

Yes, perhaps nostalgia is indeed best only in small doses,
for in greater ones it has too much power,
and can inflict too much pain.

REFLECTIONS OF SUMMERS PAST

How many of us look back at our childhood days with fond memories and not a little sadness, recalling the summers that seemed much brighter and sunnier than they are nowadays, the flowers that blossomed more profusely, and the skies that were infused with a vivid intensity of robin’s-egg blue that we can scarcely even imagine today? How many of us would willingly give up all that we have achieved in adulthood to return to the blissful happiness and security of childhood and the loving arms of our family? I would, without a moment’s hesitation.

REFLECTIONS OF SUMMERS PAST

‘Midst golden mists and shadows cast
By summer sunbeams glowing,
‘Cross straits of deep blue heavens past
The oceans gently flowing,
Glides soft enchanting sun-drenched bliss –
The warmth of Summer’s loving kiss.

For here a world of sunshine lies,
Where fragrant flowers are blooming;
While silhouettes of soft mauve skies
Through mirrored pools are looming,
Reborn from silent breaths of Spring,
As delicate as fairy wings.

And here I sit in languid haze,
Caressed by wafting breezes,
Or lie in cool, refreshing laze
As sunlight gently teases,
And dream in realms of mellow green
Of amber fields, and woods serene.

And drift through lands of summers past –
Unclouded worlds of wonder –
When childhood seemed fore’er to last,
And fears I tossed asunder
As I through Nature’s realms would choose
My outer shell to shed and lose.

And then, unheeded, passed I long
The hours in lone seclusion,
In worlds that more to me belong
Than modern-day illusions –
The work of Man’s despairing toils,
Ensnared by Greed’s unending coils.

For oft I yearn to set my gaze
Beyond the heavens’ ending,
And live again those bygone days
In which my mind is wending.
One day, perhaps, my soul will fly,
And find my world beyond the sky.

THE STAR HORSE

'Starsteed' - Nigel Parton

As a teenager at school, I was impressed enough by a scraperboard picture of a star steed produced by a friend, Nigel Parton, to purchase it from him for the princely sum of £5, and also to write the following poem in homage to the celestial stallion that it portrays. Over 30 years later, I still own that picture, entitled 'Starsteed', which is framed and hanging in my study. It is also on the front cover of this book, and is included here above this accompanying poem of mine. Thanks, Nigel!

THE STAR HORSE

Into the sea’s erupting foam,
Concealed by Evening’s shades,
A star descends from Heaven’s vale
‘Ere Twilight’s beauty fades.

And from the sapphire turbulence
A starry beam is borne –
A hazy mist of twinkling light,
A strange, auroral dawn.

And soon an outline bright appears
Within this gleaming force –
A silhouette in silver, of
A shining, starlit horse,

Emerging from the bubbling depths
With sparkling, ruffling mane,
And eyes that dart like icy stars
From Evening’s dappled train.

His body glints with rippling light
As clear as starfire rays –
A flowing spirit borne through Space
To islands far away,

To race across the mauve lagoons
‘Neath Heaven’s silent gaze.
And though the moon sends clouded light,
She knows he ne’er long stays.

For soon the sky recalls this steed
Of starry, dreaming Space.
And so he leaves on sparkling hooves
Past Earth’s immortal face.

From Space into Eternity
He goes where none have flown,
A spirit wild with nature mild,
A ghost fore’er alone

Amongst a vast Infinity
That stretches ever on,
A phantom flitting long till Dawn
Arrives to see him gone.

But Evening watches o’er this steed
From far-off realms sublime,
And still the fourth dimension waits
For him – the soul of Time.

THE CLOWN

Clowns and jesters (Dr Karl Shuker)

The poignant image of the clown who secretly weeps beneath his painted-on smile, whose staged laughter conceals his real tears, is both powerful and prolific, having appeared in countless forms, but assuredly attaining its zenith in the Leoncavallo opera ‘Pagliacci’. It was after watching a performance of this, and hearing its most famous, sorrowful aria, ‘Vesti La Giubba’ (‘On With The Motley’), that I penned my own variation upon this tragic, universal theme.

THE CLOWN

Here, ‘midst the tinsel and stars of the circus,
Stand I, before yet another vile crowd,
Gaping and gazing in leering distortion
Long, as their laughter rings raucously loud.

But know they not of the face that lies weeping
‘Neath coats of greasepaint, of white and of red.
Know they the sadness I keep trapped within me?
Know they the clear pearly tears that I’ve shed

Through endless buckets of cold chilling water,
Thrown at my face for the crowds’ grisly glee?
Tears that run rivers down pale whitewash features,
As all the hate and the envy I see

Circles, encompassing people and kingdoms,
All glaring at me through cold eyes of stone,
Stone as the hearts of the crowd now before me.
Gone is true love, leaving me all alone,

Lost in a world knowing not the true laughter
That I produced in those days long since past.
Nothing remains in a world ever changing,
Not even laughter forever may last.

Yet still I stay, like the great Pagliaccio,
Always I’ve known that the show must go on.
Put on the greasepaint and bow to the cheering,
Though all the spirit of laughter has gone.

For tonight gave I my greatest performance,
Giving my all for the bellows and jeers.
Yet did they know my lugubrious laughter
Served but to cover my visage of tears?

YESTERDAY'S STREET

My street of Yesterday, the subject of this poem, is a side street in Wednesbury, in the West Midlands, England, where my grandparents and great-aunts once lived in a small but lovely old house, and where I spent many happy days every year throughout my childhood and teenage years. Although they are all long departed now, whenever I walk down this street today – whether in reality or only in my mind – I never see it as it is, but only as it was – back in those far-off youthful days when it was home to those dear folk who loved me so much.

YESTERDAY'S STREET

Along that strangely silent street
Of Yesterday I strolled,
Where humble ragworts gaily tossed
Their joyful heads of gold
Above the gleaming wisps of grass
That peered through pavements worn,
Beneath the silken spiderwebs
Suspended old and torn
Between the ruddy bricks and slabs
Of broken tumbling walls -
Where oft I watched lithe centipedes
Laboriously crawl
On countless pairs of trembling legs,
As sparrows chattered long,
Or breathlessly in torrents poured
Out eager, scolding songs.

For here, a thriving neighbourhood
Survived through two World Wars,
And from its ceaseless gossiping
There never seemed a pause.
But all things end and soon are lost,
As progress marches on,
For Future has no time for Past,
Its ancient dreams far gone.
And as I watch, a pang vibrates
Within my beating heart,
That all my childhood dreams of Life
Should all too quickly part
Like curtains drifting back through Time,
Till, fading from my sight,
They pass fore’er from Memory
In dismal, clouded flight.

And as the leaves around my feet
In rustling dances whirl,
A tear runs slowly down my cheek
Like some reluctant pearl,
But as I gaze, my memories
Flood quickly back once more.
I see again a tiny house,
And watch its open door
Swing to, as phantoms from my past
Continue on their way,
All unaware of future worlds,
Of other, unborn days,
As like a rushing stream of ghosts
Each vision flashes by,
Recapturing their long-lost forms
Within my watching eye –

Like characters from fairy tales,
Now distant, far, and gone.
For like a living carousel
Our world moves ever on,
Till one fine day we’ll see again
Those kingdoms of our past,
And then, like they, as phantoms we
Forever more shall last,
Amidst the world that we knew best,
For all must fade and die,
And pass at last beyond the clear
Blue shadow of the sky.
And as I turn, a last farewell
Upon my ear is cast,
For still my dreams are haunted by
The murmurs of my past.

PATCH - A FOUR-LEGGED FRIEND

Patch (Dr Karl Shuker)

My very first dog was Patch, a rough-haired Jack Russell terrier, whom I loved dearly. As he grew older (he lived for twelve and half years – a good age for his breed), he became ever more relaxed, but in his younger days, like all puppies, he took great joy in waging war with the world outside. Yet with us he was a gentle, intelligent little soul, filled with love and wisdom far beyond his species.

PATCH - A FOUR-LEGGED FRIEND

A little whiskered face enquires
If he may join me by the fire,
For oft we sit, just he and I,
And watch the red flames flicker by.

And though the night be dark and cold,
He slumbers, reaching Sleep’s calm fold
Of visitors to dreamy lands,
With silent shores and silver sands.

Yet when he wakes, he sits up straight,
Or if he’s sleeping, and we’re late,
He growls in puppy-thunder tones
For ending dreams of juicy bones.

But then he’s up, and runs outside
To see if any cat dares ride
His fence with velvet paws of steel
That, five curved silver claws, conceal.

And if there is a bird in flight
His anger makes a dreadful sight,
As gates are mauled in raging storms
Of fury from this tiny form.

But when the world is still and calm,
Then he bodes no-one any harm.
And two dark eyes gaze up at me,
So brown and warm for all to see.

Those eyes: like liquid pools of Thought,
So dark and deep, for Nature caught
The intellect of other minds,
Of his and human thoughts combined

When she designed those shining wells
Of secrets he can never tell.
For we know not his canine speech,
As we have no-one who can teach

Us his strange tongue of howls and barks,
So we are e’er left in the dark
As to his knowledge of our world,
And truths that ne’er will be unfurled.

And yet he understands our speech,
Though he had no-one who could teach
Him, so as Life just flits us by,
Who is the dumb one – he, or I?

DREAMS OF NATURE

I wrote this poem as a paean of praise to Nature – and, indeed, to Supernature, even Ultranature, perfect Nature beyond humanity’s normal sensory perceptions – and to its glory through all eternity, as personified by Perpetua.

DREAMS OF NATURE

Through sleepy vales of pastel green
I passed, one Summer morning;
‘Neath dreaming skies of blissful blue
Reborn with Daylight’s dawning,
While faraway the ocean’s roars
Still echoed long from silent shores.

And on I strolled, ‘neath golden clouds,
Past dancing, crystal fountains
That leapt and sang in sparkling joy
From lilac, snow-capped mountains
Like diamond stars with lucent glee,
And blessed by Immortality.

And through the skies the sun was drawn
By two emblazoned horses
That raced along a burnished trail –
Two crimson, fiery forces
With streaming tails like scarlet lyres,
And scorching eyes like dancing fires.

Still on I passed through glades of trees –
Tall, silver dendroids gleaming
Like astral arcs with spangled boughs,
And fragrant flowers beaming,
Pulsating light in fragile streams
Like cloudy, half-forgotten dreams.

Ah, Nature! Truly thou art here,
Amidst thine own perfection,
In this, thy world of unborn dreams,
For who could give correction
To this, thy realm, and thine alone,
Which Time’s own seeds could not have sown.

And meadows flecked with sleeping flowers
Lay far into the distance –
For Nature gave them love of Life,
The will for their existence –
Exuding sweet, enchanting scent
That zephyrs’ drifting murmurs sent

Across the cerulean hills
To kiss the mauve reflections
Of pool and lake in lilac groves,
Translucent, clear perfections,
Each rippling long, with violet torqued,
As turquoise swallows skimmed and hawked.

And here I see thou dwellest too,
Perpetua, my dearest,
Whose eyes reflect the vales of Space
Like pools of beauty clearest.
For here thou too can seek release,
For here alone thou findest Peace.

Ah, Peace! I see thy figure bright –
A slender, tranquil maiden
Amidst the elvish vales and woods,
All intricately laden
With gauzy webs of spider-thread
In rippling green and blushing red.

So look into the western skies
And see her shadow shining –
A smiling face with deep blue eyes
As pure as Heaven’s lining.
And there, amid the clouds above,
A Sign is born – a snowy Dove.

Perpetua – all knowest thee –
Celestial, immortal –
Who passes e’er through Space’s door,
Through Time’s eternal portal,
To other worlds concealed from all,
Till all receive the Shining Call.

And from the rainbow’s golden end
The souls of Colour fluttered
In evanescent cloudy drifts,
As ageless mountains muttered
‘Neath shattered brows of crumbling stone,
As old and pale as whitened bone.

And all around lies Space, supreme –
A vacuum dark, unending –
Which bore thee once, Perpetua,
To send thy spirit wending
From wells of Time to strange new worlds
Where dormant Life would be unfurled.

And so, as star steeds raced in joy
Across their twinkling haven,
I took my leave of Nature’s bliss
‘Neath darkened mountains graven.
For Time is swifter still, it seems,
And past are all my Nature dreams.

For now I wake, once more alone
Amidst my own surrounding.
Yet still within my sleepy eyes
The star steeds’ souls are bounding.
And still, Perpetua, I see
Thee shining far ahead of me.

Yea, ever will I see thy face
Before my life’s ambition,
As e’er wilt thou personify
My lifetime’s expedition,
Till I no more this world shall see,
For, yea, thou art Eternity.