BYRON
The thought of Byron wakens in my mindThe vision of a solitary treeTitanic and contorted on a cliffThat overhangs a wild abysmal sea.Its mighty root, a maze of tentacles,Has put a lasting clutch-hold on the rock,Much like the miser’s fingers on his gold.Within its arteries the sap of life,The procreative juice in torrents flows,And gushes forth luxurious vegetation.The foliage-covered head is always raisedIn bold defiance of the elements.Undaunted by the tempest’s fiendish rage,Calm under the concerted stare of stars,The fickle lover of a fickle moon.On balmy days or peaceful summer evesThe rendezvous of master-singer birds.Perennial, rich, melodious and sad,Passionate and desolate and wildAnd beautiful and always beautiful.
The thought of Byron wakens in my mindThe vision of a solitary treeTitanic and contorted on a cliffThat overhangs a wild abysmal sea.Its mighty root, a maze of tentacles,Has put a lasting clutch-hold on the rock,Much like the miser’s fingers on his gold.Within its arteries the sap of life,The procreative juice in torrents flows,And gushes forth luxurious vegetation.The foliage-covered head is always raisedIn bold defiance of the elements.Undaunted by the tempest’s fiendish rage,Calm under the concerted stare of stars,The fickle lover of a fickle moon.On balmy days or peaceful summer evesThe rendezvous of master-singer birds.Perennial, rich, melodious and sad,Passionate and desolate and wildAnd beautiful and always beautiful.
The thought of Byron wakens in my mindThe vision of a solitary treeTitanic and contorted on a cliffThat overhangs a wild abysmal sea.Its mighty root, a maze of tentacles,Has put a lasting clutch-hold on the rock,Much like the miser’s fingers on his gold.Within its arteries the sap of life,The procreative juice in torrents flows,And gushes forth luxurious vegetation.The foliage-covered head is always raisedIn bold defiance of the elements.Undaunted by the tempest’s fiendish rage,Calm under the concerted stare of stars,The fickle lover of a fickle moon.On balmy days or peaceful summer evesThe rendezvous of master-singer birds.Perennial, rich, melodious and sad,Passionate and desolate and wildAnd beautiful and always beautiful.
The thought of Byron wakens in my mind
The vision of a solitary tree
Titanic and contorted on a cliff
That overhangs a wild abysmal sea.
Its mighty root, a maze of tentacles,
Has put a lasting clutch-hold on the rock,
Much like the miser’s fingers on his gold.
Within its arteries the sap of life,
The procreative juice in torrents flows,
And gushes forth luxurious vegetation.
The foliage-covered head is always raised
In bold defiance of the elements.
Undaunted by the tempest’s fiendish rage,
Calm under the concerted stare of stars,
The fickle lover of a fickle moon.
On balmy days or peaceful summer eves
The rendezvous of master-singer birds.
Perennial, rich, melodious and sad,
Passionate and desolate and wild
And beautiful and always beautiful.