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Here, Before the Cold Hearth, Weary
Here, before the cold hearth, weary,
I’ve nothing simple words might say
To meet the falling night’s inquiry
Of moonlight dimming in the bay.
Beyond the dripping window pane,
Ancient pipers are softly playing
Rhythmic notes above the rain,
To the gods of tempest praying,
For the souls of bygone yearning,
For the want of lasting memory,
For the loss of life love burning,
Singing of what used to be.
Once they piped a tune so merry,
Echoed upon mountain heights,
Called across the rolling prairie,
Played upon such wondrous sights.
Once they danced upon the morning,
Saw life wake so long ago,
Songs of temporal creatures scorning,
In the time-long score they blow.
Now the tune so melancholy
Carries out across the trees,
Blows the notes of mortal folly,
Moaning low the mournful breeze.
Bringing on the dark so dreary,
Shadows from the threshold creep.
Here, before the cold hearth, weary,
Slowly drifting off to sleep,
In my final thoughts of waking,
I hear an ageless symphony,
Instruments of heaven’s making,
Play a midnight song for me.
~ Daniel F Mitchell |
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