narrative poetry

the ancient songs
there are three ways in which men take
i shake my hair in the wind of morning
the snow whispers about me
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
while i stood listening, discreetly dumb
suddenly, out of dark and leafy ways
wheel me down by the meadow
this is the song of youth
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
blossoms of babies
the darkness steals the forms of all the queens
though love repine, and reason chafe
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies