Lavendar Trumpet

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178 words
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Angeline
Angeline
86 Followers

His swans have gone from Coole, flown years away
from splashing to the lake, measuring poet's time,
his prime, the rhythm of that world. Ireland they say

was beauty terrible, a history where sorrow lay
ruined in hearts, bled in the land, bred in his rhyme,
his swans have gone from Coole, flown years away.

Commanding flap, their trumpet fading to the gray,
the purpled mist of dusk or dawn, past tower, chime,
his prime, the rhythm of that world. Ireland they say

wears scars like tarnished jewels that fueled his day
in anguish slouching toward a vision of the crime:
His swans have gone from Coole, flown years away,

loss blown like love and seedlings, nothing but to pray
for daughter and schoolchildren, years that climb,
his prime, the rhythm of that world. Ireland they say

can't heal, but even tattered, aged, he raged in sway
of nation spun into the bone of hills and wild thyme.
His swans have gone from Coole, flown years away,
his prime, the rhythm of that world. Ireland they say.

Angeline
Angeline
86 Followers
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  • COMMENTS
10 Comments
WickedEveWickedEveover 19 years ago
you don't need to toot

your own trumpet since everyone is tooting it for you. Great poem and really sucky feedback from me. lol

tungtied2utungtied2uover 19 years ago
Awe

Makes me float above the horizon, suspended in flight. Out of body.Thanks Ange.

Maria2394Maria2394over 19 years ago
this is

magical!

I dont know what else to say, wonderful imagery Angeline and flawless form, I envy you!!! xoxox :)

TathagataTathagataover 19 years ago
You

Got it!!

The lilt and the magic of Yeats, with that story telling sway.

A beautiful piece Ange.

Classical perfection

Thank you

fawniefawnieover 19 years ago
another wow?

stunningly beautiful and captivating. i loved this one too!

nuff said! xo

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