The Bard
In flick’ring light of candle dim, There sits a man; to him, Though yet he knows of no such praise, In future, poets gaze Upon his works with eyes of awe, And marvel how he saw The fairies ‘neath the summer’s moon, ‘Mid plot, and jest, and swoon; Or listen through a door ajar To schemes and witty spars That kingdoms vast could overthrow ‘Ere sun its face would show. Oh how, dear writer in your rags, Should noble bloodline brag To fairest maid of royal court, And should one thus make sport? Or ought the prince speak true and bold To win the heart of gold? And what of treach’rous, twisted deeds, Worked from usurper’s greed, And how the son of fairest reign Ought now a vengeance deign To wreak upon that evil crown Before, in grief, he drowns? All these, and more, from vivid mind, Can any reader find; All penned in fog and candlelight By common man; but bright His heaven of invention goes Through Time’s dark ebb and flow.