Before autumn stirs the blazing sun
And the rosewood crosses the morning hedge
As meadow dancers comfort the distant field
To offer the amethyst to the morning muse.
Tis the time the poets are heard and made
As Yeats whose songs and wisdom came
That silently remain in bones from born to dirt
As the flute and drum drift the morning blaze.
The morning muse embraces the fallen soul
She accepts the dark cast of a distant fall
The notes and promises he once shared
Now lay silently away from care.
In spring would she still be heard?
Would the setting sun still fuel the field of fire?
Would a bouquet of wisdom comfort the morning muse?
Would silent breath still be heard in flute and drum?
