As if I was writing 100 years ago...
Singing past the cemetery
flowers in their curls
go the Grenstone girls
Clover leaves and starry grasses
grown tender in the dew
There’s plenty of good lads under clay
that’s the way to keep them
young and clean and good
Happier than mere living could
and they the hapless brides…
By prophets of wandering – telephone poles –
shrines of the lighted sky
The girls play with moonbeams, laugh like a child
how full are their eyes with starlight
As they lengthen out his lodging in the dust
when she waits, he listens
when she breathes, he sleeps.
“I’ll see you off to go sailing away —
On the herring-infested sea
Out where the gulls
are at play—
“Arcady is where you are from, and where
we both shall return someday.
“Soon you will come sailing back
Over the sea
Back again home
to me.
“Your mother says you are from Arcady,
the place that we’ll both love to be.”
