I read this poem this morning and can’t shake it. It’s following me around right now… It reminds me of Yeats and Walter de la Mare and is its own all wrapped into one. A very Celtic feel. Read it slow. It’s so worth it.
A Valley of White Poppies
Between the grey pastures and the dark wood
A valley of white poppies is lit by the low moon:
It is the grave of dreams, a holy rood.
It is quiet there: no wind doth ever fall.
Long, long ago a wind sang once a heart-sweet rune.
Now the white poppies grow, silent and tall.
A white bird floats there like a drifting leaf:
It feeds upon faint sweet hopes and perishing dreams
And the still breath of unremembering grief.
And as a silent leaf the white bird passes,
Winnowing the dusk by dim forgetful streams.
I am alone now among the silent grasses.
~Fiona Macleod
SO YEATSY.
Wow, what a lovely little poem. This is the kind of thing I aspired to write–but never did–back when I was serious about writing poetry.
Beautiful! And the Nielsen illustration goes so well!