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.