"Come with me, to the Land of Apple,"
Said the wind on a whim to red-haired cattle.
"I promise your faith will take profit,"
Said the wind with chagrin to the sleeping giant.
"I beg you-there is fruit aplenty,
Ripe on trees," said the breeze, "you need not leave empty."
"Won't you come? Seasons are a-turning,
Does your soul have a hole that keeps returning?
I have seen red fruit, bright boughs bending,
By the sea, come with me, to a feast unending!"
"Believe you we do," said but a few.
"But the way, would you say, is hard to get to?"
"I will guide," said the zephyr to all,
"And my breath will stop death, give strength when you fall."
"But the path," said they, "Is it too long?
Tell you what, just bring us the fruit; is that wrong?
If it's good it's worth bringing to us,"
Said many. (Already, they hoped in smugness.)
"But winter nearly is upon you,
The green vale will not fail to keep cold from you!"
"Can't see it, therefore you're lying!
We'll stay here and not fear," said they, denying.
So the wind left them to their truth,
And when winter came they all died.
To a man they blamed the wind.
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...
