These tales of old disguisings, are they not
Strange myths of souls that found themselves among
Unwonted folk that spake an hostile tongue,
Some soul from all the rest who’d not forgot
The star-span acres of a former lot
Where boundless mid the clouds his course he swung,
Or carnate with his elder brothers sung
Ere ballad-makers lisped of Camelot?

Old singers half-forgetful of their tunes,
Old painters color-blind come back once more,
Old poets skill-less in the wind-heart runes,
Old wizards lacking in their wonder-lore:

All they that with strange sadness in their eyes
Ponder in silence o’er earth’s queynt devyse?

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2 Comments

  1. Sheryl Skoglund says:

    “These tales of old disguisings, are they not
    Strange myths of souls that found themselves among
    Unwonted folk that spake an hostile tongue,
    All they that with strange sadness in their eyes
    Ponder in silence over earths queynt devyse?” We must be nice to all they may be angels unaware.

  2. Maosn says:

    does anyone understand this poem?

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