The Ballad of the Golden Talon

As I went out one good morning

     My coat as bright as day. 

I fell upon a gold talon

     All in a field of clay.

I said, ‘I know no chanty

     Could tell me what to say

On finding such a golden find

     On an ordinary day’.

The Hare came over meadow,

     He came down yonder hill,

He had a thing to tell me

     Though it would do me ill.

He said, ‘This golden talon

     Is the mark of sore despair,

Its air of gold hides the taint of mould

     And you should sure beware’.

I held the golden talon,

     I thought, ‘What can it be

In the world’s design, in the twining vine

     That has designs on me?

In the realm of the Silver Raven

     Where I am pleased to dwell

Secluded far (though with door ajar)

     Who could not wish me well?’

I looked more closely upon the world

     (That sphere of green and blue),

I saw horror and I saw poverty

     Of every type and hue,

And I thought, ‘This golden talon

     Is the only way to save

My sorry misunderstandings

     From a cold and deep dark grave’.

But even then I was thinking

     Only of the sainted Me;

The sun was high, but with a sigh

     I made a plaintive plea:

‘How can I come to the Thunderous Void

     Where all will be made plain

By those whom I have sore annoyed

     That matters may not be in vain?’

I stared at the Hare, and he at me;

     I saw impatience in his eye;

‘You are full of human puffery’, he said,

     (Which nobody can deny) -

‘So seize the golden talon,

     Plunge into the thunderous sea

And you may assuage the wide world’s rage -

     At least to a certain degree’.

So I’ve tried that, and it didn’t work well -

     I’m alone on a wide wide sea

With a sinking raft, in a terrible draught

     With no-one for company

Except for the Hare. But he is not there

     To anyone else but me.

And so I think, as I swim or I sink,

     Did the talon not make me free?

As I walked out in the open air

     I saw a crow whipped back by wind

And I thought, is this the everywhere

      By a wild force unpinned?

How can I see, by what can I swear

      When the talon is buried and gone?

Is there some way I am meant to tear

      Life from the living swan?

Come all you youths of summer,

     Desist from your callow play;

Don’t punish this latecomer

     On a brightening, startling day;

Consider all your talon,

     It rips with careless glee,

But it can bless, and give caress;

     Can hold. Or grasp. Or free.


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Night-Winds Lap

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Death