Poem of the Week

Personal
August 24, 2016

Often I am Permitted to Return to a Meadow

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as if it were a scene made-up by the mind,
that is not mine, but is a made place,

that is mine, it is so near to the heart,
an eternal pasture folded in all thought
so that there is a hall therein

that is a made place, created by light
wherefrom the shadows that are forms fall.

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Wherefrom fall all architectures I am
I say are likenesses of the First Beloved
whose flowers are flames lit to the Lady.

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She it is Queen Under The Hill
whose hosts are a disturbance of words within words
that is a field folded.

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It is only a dream of the grass blowing
east against the source of the sun
in an hour before the sun’s going down

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whose secret we see in a children’s game
of ring a round of roses told.

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Often I am permitted to return to a meadow
as if it were a given property of the mind
that certain bounds hold against chaos,

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that is a place of first permission,
everlasting omen of what is.

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-Robert Duncan

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