A lonely solitary sound
floats slowly 'cross a mountain stream;
a voice still young and quite unfound,
her song a long consuming dream.
No meadowlark has pined as sweet
or brought such beauty near complete;
her plaintive strains of purity
enrapture life in symphony.

No springtime trill of whippoorwill
which breaks the still of silent night
can touch so much my naked will
or shine as bright a healing light.
No Sirens of exotic seas,
heard off the Southern Hebrides,
could lift so high my troubled soul
now filled to full and joyous whole.

She sings the ancient dialect
of Highland Gaelic, lost to me,
yet language lost does not affect
perfection in its melody.
And suddenly I see her now;
she takes a low and private bow
then sees me standing here amiss -
from lip of bliss, she throws a kiss.

Edited 1 time(s). Last edit at 02/08/2021 08:18AM by easyeverett.

easyeverett:

Welcome to emule. What a wonderful way to introduce yourself! This poem is filled with beautiful language, near-perfect meter and excellent rhyme - things we don't see around here much these days. I certainly hope we have the good fortune to read more of your work.

Joe

easyeverett,

Thank you for posting these two. I will need some time to read them over again and again, but after just reading them once, I also hope you post more and often. Very, Very nice to read!

Aaron

Welcome to the mule.

Joe, Aaron and Mr. P, I thank you all for the
welcome and look forward to creative exchange. tom

Tom,

This is beautifully written. A pleasure to read. Welcome to e-mule.

Mary

I am sure glad I picked this reflection of my heritage to
start my posts with Mary. I am honored you enjoyed and so
are all Scotch/Irish people everywhere. LOL. tom