Finis Coronat Opus

In western isle across the sea, Where men from shadow long were free, There dwelled a young adventurer fair Whose line was noble, but whose care Was ever for the rolling waves And sailing into break of day. Fair ships he built, as never seen Before his time; and evergreen He planted o’er the island vales, That generations hence might sail In frigates made from timber strong, To seek the lands names oft in song. Upon the isle, a maiden lived Within the vales, like treasure hid, Who loved the woods and all that grew, And how leaves sprung each year anew; She cared not for the ocean’s song And said ‘twould weary her ‘ere long. The maiden and the youth would wed, He’d place a crown upon her head And seek to grant her every wish, Yet one thing she’d not bear; ’twas this: That trees be felled for mast and stern, And ships go out that not return. So as the years passed, hearts grew sad, For love of forests both they had; But one loved what the timber made, The other, woods, as tall they staye...

  A candle in a window stands, And through the panes it glows As early darkness shrouds the land That slumbers ‘neath the snow. The single flame so feeble seems Against the dark of night, Its golden shimmer, sparkling keen Within a drape of white. Yet, flame untouched by wind and chill Still beckons warmly, “Come, And warm yourself, and feast your fill ’Til winter’s past and gone!”

An icy wind Begins to blow ‘mid mountains tall, And soon shall with it snowflakes fall, Upon a well-worn stoop to thaw. An icy wind From furthest north, from tundra drear, Howls ceaselessly for all to hear As by the hearth they gather near. An icy wind With frost and chill the winter brings; Yet, in the houses, people sing, “Joy to the world!”, “Hail to the King!”

Across the sea, where sunlight dwells In lands now hid by rocky fells, Where tales of old speak of the days Fair ships of gold, in vast array Set forth, the world to see. Upon the crests of foaming wave The sails of crimson tossed and played, And rays of sun upon the beams Of fairest timber ever seen Sparkled like a gem. Far distant coasts of foreign lands, Where shadows hid and dark streams ran, Where ancient houses strong had been, Before the sea rose up again, So saw explorers bold. And so they sailed for countless years, And hardly word did ever hear The western lands beneath the sun Of where had gone, what had become Of ships upon the deep. Some say they found the hidden realms That lesser men would overwhelm; Some tell of paths beyond the sky, Where faery folk the roads belie Beneath the silver moon. But such a fate their doom may be That ever thus they sail the sea, The call of gulls upon their ears And stars to mark the passing years, And never west return.

I n graveyard lonely, grey, and still, Beneath the winter’s chill, There lies entombed a man of old Of whom the bravest tales were told In generations gone. In life, he gallant soldier was, Like knight of ages past, Whose sword was raised in battle grim And drew his weary men to him To fight, and win the day. This man, who sleeps beneath the sod, Who fought for love of God, Defended right when all was lost And steadfast stood, no matter cost, Forgot should never be. When brave men fall, and rest in earth, And living turn to mirth, Forgetting whence their freedom came, Ignoring faith, and shunning pain, Their doom shall swiftly fall.

Hidden deep in castle old, Ivy covered, clad in mold, Kept for cen’tries from the light Of harshest beams of bright sunlight, Shelf on shelf of books, whose tales  Of valor splendid, ancient vales, Of kingdoms long since past and gone, Lie forgotten, hid from sun. So precious are these stories great, That ‘scaped their fellows’ aging fate And live now on, though other lays Have not been heard for years of days; But if they hidden so have been, What good are they to mortal men Who grasp and yearn for noble deeds, And seek the path that to them leads?

Summer’s time is gone, and sleeps He long, ’til winter’s past, And now, with turning of the leaves, The air is chill at last. The sunlight hides ‘mid clouds of grey That with the breezes dance, And send their finest mists of rain That pierce like freezing lance. No time like this for fires bright, And cheering draughts, and lore, As through the window, leaves alight On autumn mistrals borne.