On the moors of twilight dreary,
Flits a sound that's heard most clearly,
And echoes 'cross the fen and feild,
To great gray faced mountains yonder.
It rises deep from 'neath the ground,
And rings a note of clearest sound,
That finds the lost and frees the bound:
Then come peals of rolling thunder.
The earth (who knows the king is crowned),
Does entreat wild hearts to wonder,
And wills each soul to ponder-
A question that is most profound:
"Are you one lost or are you found?"
And all this rings within the sound,
'til echoes come no longer 'round.
'til echoes come no longer 'round.
YOU ARE READING
The Quiet Strangers
PoetrySometimes I think poems are like quiet strangers in the corner of the room waiting to be known. Only when time is taken to approach them is their richness revealed. Here you will find poems on nature, loss, hope, and the soul. Simple topics some mig...
