Morning Trip (126)

“Nocturne

A pale golden flame illuminates the suspended
billows of the forest. Star after star emerges,
where the moongold laps the velvet-soft shores
of dusk. Slowly the yellowing flame arises
like smoke among dark-blue depths. The
white rays of the stars wander over the move-
less, over the shadowless and breathless green
lawns of the tree-tops. Oh, would that I were
a star lost deep within the paling yellow flame
that illumes the suspended billows of the forest.”

— by “Fiona Macleod” (William Sharp), The Silence of Amor, Where the Forest Murmurs

Morning Trip (8)

“I want to lie down in dappled leaf-shade,
In quivering shadows of quivering leaves —

be they oak, be they maple,
be they elm or birch,
I want to rest in the play of shadows
over my reclining form,
The massage of shadows
which consoles me in its way,
Restores for me
with whatever restoration
Flickering shadows of leaves afford–
be they willow or aspen,
be they poplar or beech,
I want to be caressed by shadows
of wavering leaves,
Soothed off to sleep
feeling the gentle breeze,
Looking up at the rustling
sun-drenched crown–
Be it basswood, be it chestnut,
Be it walnut or hickory,
after all is said,
after all is done,
This is the way
I would die.”

–ANTLER