Lyra
Lyra
Hair as crimson as the dying embers in the hearth;
The golden harp’s chords throbbing with vitality, mirth;
Blushing roses; white and infantile red;
They snake up the lyre, the stems delightfully jade.
Folded silks trailing, sometimes magenta, sometimes blue;
Her damp fingers pluck; dawn’s dew;
A thicket; a grove; a clearing amidst;
Soothing melody, gloom’s fading cist.
From peach to sapphire, as the sky turns old;
Her notes become surer, bold;
Blessed by the Lyra, a voice of the minstrel from the silver heaven;
Leaves rustle, boughs sway, threads of her tune woven.
Upon a mound she reposes;
Larks hover, buds blossom, the refrain to her hymn closes;
Autumnal ditty, a new chorus;
Maples descend on to her lap, the mellowed dusky nimbus.
Harmony of the year late;
The breaths of spring and summer mate;
A lullaby sweet for the fledglings in the dark;
Soft flutters of eyelids beneath the lunar circular mark.