She’s gone, my love is gone

I come in the night to the old oak grove,
Where shadows cling below the wood,
Knotted as earth’s cold and deadly trove,
I gaze to see a wingless moon in a hood.

She’s gone, my love is gone, into the blackness,
Where lover’s go into the bleak heart of agony;
Where the bladed stars are born to darkness,
And the white-crone moon above is bound in melancholy.

Our meeting is out of time, a chance occurrence
Or design, the chastened tempest hollow guest,
Whose semblance chafes my bold deterrence,
Where I’m seeking the drear tower of my quest.

She’s gone, my love is gone, into the blackness,
Where lover’s go into the bleak heart of agony;
Where the bladed stars are born to darkness,
And the old pagan gods wander in forlorn melancholy.

The oaks are empty now, the leaves are ash,
The wounded king is sleeping, the black knight
Is leaning next to him; and, I, even I thrash
Against the blighted chains in a bone-mad night.

She’s gone, my love is gone, into the blackness,
Where lover’s go into the bleak heart of agony;
Where the bladed stars are born to darkness,
And the quickened dead follow her in silent melancholy.

Her brow is white as snow, her lips dewberry red,
Her eyes soft sea-blue cradle me in my sleep;
And as I wake to hear her laughter, she’s fled
Beyond the leafless oaks in a shadowy deep.

She’s gone, my love is gone, into the blackness,
Where lover’s go into the bleak heart of agony;
Where the bladed stars are born to darkness,
And I who in longing seek her am blind and melancholy.

– Steven Craig Hickman ©2014 Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author is strictly prohibited.