William Jones

Marten Hoyle


On this dandelion I make request
That brave sorrow may be laid to rest.
Desperate pleas from so frail a lung,
Begging for all that ever died so young.
But these seeds—they are not driven
To the blue house of prayers that we call Heaven.

In the ground my wish finds death,
So to another I give my breath.
I wish to meet but one soul
Who may my own console.
But these seeds—they do not rise
To the cage of all hope in the skies.

From each crown—not all will come off;
My breath and my will are not power enough.
See how they fall! How sadly they move
Bearing all dreams, all vision; all love!
These seeds—a promise each and all,
Listen well; but only will fall.

What stands in the way of the air,
Or the ears of the gods in their care?
These seeds—though heeding my sigh
Find the high grasses, and so they die.

The song of crows in the trees
Carries well without a breeze;
The leaves are swaying to and fro
But, unfair, downward my seeds only shall go.
These seeds—prelude to somber night
Yearn for my freedom, but cannot take flight.
These seeds—pendulous as they fell;
Was it ever true they cast a spell?
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