The Lonely Hunter

Green branches, green branches, I see you beckon; I follow!

Sweet is the place you guard, there in the rowan-tree hollow.

There he lies in the darkness, under the frail white flowers,

Heedless at last, in the silence, of these sweet midsummer hours.

But sweeter, it may be, the moss whereon he is sleeping now,

And sweeter the fragrant flowers that may crown his moon-white brow:

And sweeter the shady place deep in an Eden hollow

Wherein he dreams I am with him — and, dreaming, whispers, “Follow!”

Green wind from the green-gold branches, what is the song you bring?

What are all songs for me, now, who no more care to sing?

Deep in the heart of Summer, sweet is life to me still,

But my heart is a lonely hunter that hunts on a lonely hill.

Green is that hill and lonely, set far in a shadowy place;

White is the hunter’s quarry, a lost-loved human face:

O hunting heart, shall you find it, with arrow of failing breath,

Led o’er a green hill lonely by the shadowy hound of Death?

Green branches, green branches, you sing of a sorrow olden,

But now it is midsummer weather, earth-young, sun-ripe, golden:

Here I stand and I wait, here in the rowan-tree hollow,

But never a green leaf whispers, “Follow, oh, Follow, Follow!”

O never a green leaf whispers, where the green-gold branches swing:

O never a song I hear now, where one was wont to sing.

Here in the heart of Summer, sweet is life to me still,

But my heart is a lonely hunter that hunts on a lonely hill.

~ Fiona Macleod

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Bedraggled

Crucified I find myself but I ask myself why.

Should it be so every encounter?

What do you want from me or not….in your not; you demand. That i am crucified to your needs. Your will. My Gods or yours? You sit behind your clothes and me I am naked. I am judged. You are holy.

But who am I? In your eyes? Who are you in mine….we both nothing. But lovers. Beauty and the entwined. Beauty and the bedraggled.

All I am I would give to you. You sit behind your clothes. What shall I say…I am nothing…

Dim Face Of Beauty

Image: Briton Riviere – Una and the Lion

Poem by Fiona Macleod.

Dim face of Beauty haunting all the world,
Fair face of Beauty all too fair to see,
Where the lost stars adown the heavens are hurled,
There, there alone for thee

For here where all the dreams of men are whirled
Like sere torn leaves of autumn to and fro,
There is no place for thee in all the world,
Who driftest as a star,
Beyond, afar.

Beauty, sad face of Beauty, Mystery, Wonder,
What are these dreams to foolish babbling men —
Who cry with little noises ‘neath the thunder
Of ages ground to sand,
To a little sand.