La fille aux cheveux de lin
The girl with the flaxen hair
Smiling tears, a shape-shifting delight,
She mumbles her prayers, she turns out the light.
Her dreams are protected, by what she believes,
With the rising at dawn, and the turning of leaves.
Artists paint her aura, in deepest periwinkle blue,
Musicians litter their scores, her minor chords too.
Crying songs, and distant laments, auras of night,
The scent of patchouli oil, surrounds her first sight..
Poets seek her out to show the sadnesses of love,
She remains an ambient presence, above mourning doves
Coo and nightingales sing, but the girl with the flaxen hair
Just twirls her ring, sings to herself, mumbles a prayer,
Hardly believes she’s already there. In the garden
Of love; flowers and bees, seem all that she needs.
John Marks
Mon 25th Jul 2022 17:50
The Garden of Love
BY WILLIAM BLAKE
I went to the Garden of Love,
And saw what I never had seen:
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.
And the gates of this Chapel were shut,
And 'Thou shalt not' writ over the door;
So I turn'd to the Garden of Love,
That so many sweet flowers bore.
And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tomb-stones where flowers should be:
And Priests in black gowns, were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars, my joys & desires.