Strange being of brown felt, what worlds have you seen?
Has the salt of far seas sprayed on your crown?
Have distant desert's dusts left these pale flecks?
Haberdasher's handicraft, you perplex
the poor mind-captive of a concrete town
Were you nearly lost over blustering cliffs?
Or broiled in the heat of tropical sun?
Did your brim gain its droop in myriad rains
shielding some explorer in wild campaigns?
Did each sight vow the last would be outdone?
A wild, mystic world my eyes now perceive;
what elder force caused these mountains to rise?
What power scraped bare these bones of the earth?
And how, among them, do patches of turf
rise, seeking heaven, beneath faerie skies
Seasoned oak hull, over-heavy with frost,
breaking pale seas as it pursues the pole;
The green strength of a young empire seeks to
fill the map's blanks; the whole earth to subdue.
Do these stains express the pioneer soul?
Fedora, grant me dash, that I might pierce
the barbed-wire confines of modern routine,
the crosswalk, and the 'no trespassing' decree?
What wonder remains? Must I always be
Heartsick for a land I have never seen?
I decided the only change I absolutely had to make was to standardize the number of lines, so the last two stanzas are reworked. I may tinker further, but it may be better to leave the work alone.
No comments:
Post a Comment