Voices in the Mist

Voices in the Mist

Line 1: Anapestic Trimeter – – / – – / – – /
Line 2: Dactylic Tetrameter / – – / – – / – – / – –
Line 3. Trochaic Hexameter / – / – / – / – / – /
Line 4. Iambic Pentameter – / – / – / – / – /

In the first living hour of my day
Even in infancy destiny called to me,
Sweet the voice that drifted from beyond your shores
On misty Irish seas o’er Mersey Bar;

And I knew in the heart of my youth
She would not suffer for me to remain with you,
Softly she would call my name one fateful day
And take me over ocean waves afar;

As the hour of my day approached six
Destiny’s yearning was burning consuming me,
August’s balmy waves echoed distant cries
With passion I embraced the nymph of fate;

On the wings of adventure elated
Borne across oceans of darkest profundity,
Into crimson skies where setting sun declines
To lands of carefree days and starry nights;

Then at noon on the day of my life
Far from the land of my ancestors legacy,
Boldly in exotic fields of passion’s fruit
I harvested sweet bounties of desire;

But that lady of fate is capricious
Destiny’s fealty endures only fleetingly,
Cruelly she imprisoned me in my delusion
To drift a northern isle in Carib seas;

Left to drown in the depths of contrition
Caught in a vortex of turquoise-blue misery,
Breathing long forgotten threads of carefree youth
Recalling mid-December’s summer days;

In this last living hour of my day
Gazing through mist in the North the pole-star I see,
Sweeter still your voice that drifts from those fair shores
O’er misty Irish Sea from Mersey Bar.

Crosby Beach, Liverpool By Will Daviess

Crosby Beach, Liverpool
By Will Daviess

Barcarola

 

Nach-dem-tornado by Winslow Homer Image: wikipaintings.org

Nach-dem-tornado by Winslow Homer
Image: wikipaintings.org

Barcarola

A craftless ship afloat ill-tempered waters
With neither star nor compass to avail,
Blown on those wintry gales far from safe quarters,
Caught-fast upon a reef my yawl did flail;
For tempests of the heart will hard pursue
On passion’s tides that run love’s ocean deep,
Those ships of lovers seeking harbours new
In ports where love’s rare booty they would reap;
And wisdom’s compass is no guide for lovers,
Infatuation’s stars do but deceive,
To foil intrepid sailors, like all others,
And dash them on those ragged rocks to grieve.
Lament no more my barcarola triste,
For love is least where doleful tears persist!