The Aspiring Bard

Hush now, my child, and listen to me. The fair folk are passing far over the sea. Forests are weeping their long golden leaves, And sad wind goes crying o'er harvested sheaves. Mist forms a mourning veil over the land, And waves murmur dirges along the sea strand. The bright ones are leaving this lonely shore. The earth is lamenting, we'll see them no more. Chorus: Light feet are stepping, Pale shadows flitting, Fair voices singing On the shores of the sea. Can you hear their songs in the ancient wood, Where of an old time splendid temples once stood? "We are going." I can hear their lonely chant say "We're leaving our sorrows to sail far away. "The forest may weep its bright golden tears, To decay on the mould of happier years. In vain the gray hills and small valleys mourn, We all are departing, to leave them forlorn. Chorus "See our slender boats of yellow and red, With the shapes of proud queens at each carved figure...

One with the storm and running wild, You laughed like a delighted child As the wind ran its fingers through your hair. You stretched your arms out, brown and bare, In a fervent embrace Of the rain that kissed your face. A kindred spirit revealed to me, On the shore of a storm-crested sea. One with the wind, and the pelting grey rain, Storm-children, we met by the tossing main.