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The Forester

by Robert 12 months ago in performance poetry
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Poem

The Forester
Photo by Markos Mant on Unsplash

Clear as of old the great voice rings to-day,

While Sherwood's oaks leaves twine with bay:

The voice of him the master and the sire

Of one whole age and legion of the lyre,

Who sang his morning song when Coleridge still

Uttered dark oracles from Highgate Hill,

And with new launched argosies of rhyme

Gilds and makes brave this sombreing tide of time.

Far be the hour when lesser brows shall wear

The laurel glorious from that wintry hair

When he, the sovereign of our lyric day,

In Charon's shallop must be rowed away,

And hear, scarce heeding, 'mid the plash of oar,

from the shore!

To him nor tender nor heroic muse

Did her divine confederacy refuse:

To all its moods the lyre of life he strung,

And notes of death fell deathless from his tongue.

Himself the Merlin of his magic strain,

He bade old glories break in gloom again;

And so exempted from oblivious doom,

Through him these days shall fadeless break in bloom.

performance poetry

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Robert

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