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I am a great admirer of English poetry from the time of Chaucer up until the middle of the twentieth century when it appeared to lose its way. I love all aspects of this planet but are sometimes sad when I think of what we are doing to it.

Tuesday, 3 July 2018

THE WIND FROM THE SUN




THE WIND

The wind from the sun buffets the worlds.
It streams over the lavas of Caloris;
It presses fiery fingers into Cytherean storms.
Here, over Peary Land its shimmering curtains
Dance in the dark when the great bears
And the Great Bear shiver in the night.
Into Imbrium’s dust it throws its ions,
Sweeping on to bombard defenceless Tharsis
And the unplumbed Valley of the Mariner.
About The King it places twin circlets
And around His aged father too.

The wind is fading now as it sweeps
Past the far Frost Giants and across
The dim Styx and its Ferryman.
At last, in the silent darkness
The wind flutters and dies; fades and falls.

But there in the depths of endless night
For a moment it meets other winds
And listens lovingly to their tales.

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