Whistleblade

I rose in the dawn,

to the chill veil,

of night retreating,

to see the softest,

of the coiling brume,

turn the horizon,

to a threaded flame.

And the glowing golden,

world beholden,

just to my hand,

stirs in wonder.

Hear the wind whistle,

through this iron notch,

wound in the valley,

and the hills beyond.

Call me old-fashioned,

but I'm not forgot,

while my name is still spoken,

I'm living on.

Well, there's a lass in town,

she who moves like a woodcat,

moves like a hare,

through morning fields.

In whose own vivid soul,

I could name every leaf,

and every wing.

She speaks thus to me:

"For a man to seed cruelty,

into his soil,

is to disown,

the very bones of him..."

Additional excerpts from Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard by Thomas Gray.