The Well in the Glade
Closed eyes ward away too-bright light from day's ungentle star,
My soul flees inward to comfort in an inner peaceful pale;
Where green auroras creep vinelike over stone and tree,
A well lies long-known, well-used, beloved,
A meeting place where heart and mind may touch,
The soul mingling to form prefection's image,
Artist's delight in the three young beauties gathered there.
Each bucket dipped from the dark well brings forth another work,
Another fragmented lovely to bring into the glow,
Pastel skin injusticed by metaphor and degraded in comparison to the beauties of the earth.
But tonight is strange,
An evening out of place,
For the three do not meet here underneath the wan and paling moon.
The heart- she pines for another long since missed,
The mind- she ponders away a darkened hour in her tangled depths,
The soul- she strives to reach a heaven untouched in this flashing life,
And their darling glade wastes alone,
And their darling artist starves for their touch.