Under that wide and starry sky,

A lovely planet swing

Whitman and Teasdale and Stevenson

Watch the skies for heavenly things.

And of such visions are poets made,

As fields of daffodills dance,

And Wordsworth and Frost find their muse from the earth,

Seeing beauty in all at a glance.

We salute you dear dreamers, creators of poems,

Images with stories to tell,

Fog on cat’s feet, snowy evenings, stone walls,

Paint pictures that make our hearts swelll.

A world that can’t be held too close enough,

And love like a red, red rose,

That can’t be compared to a summer’s day,

Could never be told just in prose.

“God’s in his heaven - all’s right with the world”,

Anthem’s sing from invisible choirs.

And should Jenny’s kiss fill a heart full of bliss,

Music rings from the harps and the lyres.

Where shall we go, if our wings could take flight,

To the forest primeval, or fair Innisfree,

Or by the shining Big -Sea -Waters,

Hiawatha’s small owlet to see?

Tiger, tiger, that burns so bright,

You amaze with your gold symmetry.

Poe’s raven we’ll nevermore visit again,

Dark memories may haunt ere we leave.

Onward to places more restful and calm

Where Stevenson’s shadow is seen,

And night, stars and glow worms set the stage for a pause,

To refresh on our journey serene.

Then to gentle Afton’s waters,

Its murmuring stream winds along

“In the time of my childhood, ‘twas like a sweet dream”,

To sit by the river and hear the bird’s song.

Bards of old, we give thanks also for you,

Taliesen, “Cymru”, our welcome to Wales,

Where Eistetfodd brings poetry alive once again,

And beauty abounds in your vales.

So ends our travels on wings oer the clouds

We could go on for ages, but still,

We must end this verse with a wave of farewell,

As the hunter comes home from the hills.

Virginia Atkinson


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