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In the dogwood days of December,

I did find fog and fire enough,

To send my furtive signals to the undied moon,

And moor my soul among many stars made mysteriousser,

In my own silent stones:

And the moans of bones are but the beginning,

Of things yet undone;

In this day of smothered sounds,

(Though easy am I in my own way),

Which is heard in the switching of leaves knocking together,

By every blow;

But of the wind and her muscles I know nothing at all.


There in my footsteps comes the Far Wanderer,

Relentless are the steps of ice and snow,

Knowingly upon my trail;

Lost! O Lost!

Yet to tell the never ending gift,

Of the well traveled tale;

Is it story or fable? Enough.

The waxy pine-needles fall upon my snow-clad shoulders,

And I am soon enough to the fine flakes of ice;

O I am Lost! Lost!


Tonight will light my way,

By broken stars,

The rounders of myself will pass me by,

On the broad highway;

And fey are the follies of being busy,

Between the nows and then,

(Of wondering where I've been)

And the never-ending becomes itself,

In fine afflictions,

Never meant...


My thanks to Commander Robert List of the Royal Marines
 and to the Eagle Pub, Maide-Vale, London, for the title.

- Michael Warren Eliseuson