A poem

The Hermits Speech

My doodling mind dawdled

The muddy road muddled

Through the bracken roods I wode

My hoary horse near fountain wanders

There! Out the brush a hare

White as frost and the icy bear

On his head a floral hat

Up fro bushes a maddening clap

Near a lantern I put the goon

To see, my stars, a searing gaze

His lizard skin and blizzard eyes

They charred me to fright, I surmise,

It was a glamor gained in shining fright,

The blurry vision marred by sight,

This fright beneath the cherry beech

Would a widow true humbly beseech,

The bushman raised his yellow lids

And spoke a murmur of tutelage:

“A gift to me your minstrelsy

What you see is truthful, I wit,

Though I gawk and throw a fit,

You are unmoved by boulder blows

Nor does the sun shine upon your toes

If older makes the molder grow,

I swear it truth your death will show,

So soon is gloom on blackened eyes

To shut the barking orgulous mut,

By St. Denis look how you so strut,

Slap the bezants from the wrap,

I tell these men of many miens,

But none have heard me verily!

Death, it comes upon the breath,

And all life has an ending strife,

To you who spoke so true, I wit,

There isn’t much more to give of it,

So hark! My beastly words will speak,

And make the whorish world bleak,

Frost over the may dew and meadow true,

With one swift cast, I’ll make you stew!

When the darkness beckons blent,

I say it surely you will wot.”

And such mopish mellows did I sigh,

For ne’er so close to death was I,

Then the speckled hare did off,

Away with a golden brattice, I scoff,

No more did the brutish man flute,

Not a wit, the night was cool,

He took away a charmless ring,

I gave from my own hand, I wit,

So I take the end roads back,

A drowsy wind my horse made slack,

Until I came to Chateau du Met,

A night I ne’er forget, not a wit.   

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