1The yellow leaves, lying softly
O'er the ground, so secure,
Are lifted by winds yet more lofty,
That would to our wishes ensure.
Yet those be not the tufted green
That covers still far more
Of that which often is between
East ocean and west shore.
That vile fiend of beauty vast
Is paradox itself.
How doth mother nature cast
Her shadow from her shelf!
But she be not Poseidon's roar,
That echoes 'cross the ranks
Of countless, nameless, tearless shores,
And all their tearless banks.
That ancient wyrm evoked by he
Is fiercest to contend.
Ye suffer naught upon the sea,
Lest for ye life ye fend.
Yet still, Poseidon hath no wrath
To rival burning stone.
The flames, collossus beings, hath
A tyrannical throne.
And still, as heretofore this day,
The Lady holds these grounds.
She holds the waters and the fay.
She echoes all their sounds.
4/30/04