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-----Original Message----- From: Douglas Clark <[log in to unmask]> Date: Thursday, March 12, 1998 4:33 AM Subject: Re: Fred Beake's cogitations on feet >Woodlands > >The lack of a song in the soul >Is the cause of a celibate curse >The loss of spring in the vine >Taints the rhythm of verse >The freshness the thrill of before >Is repeated as memory plays >The records the hope of young heart >Relayed thru some innocent face >But the fire in the heart is all still >The wine to the head no more >What was there by right in the past >Is dredged from the depths as a chore >The pen so easy skips its beat >But whereof is its reason >Are all singers doomed to play mechanic >When love moves on in season >Drinking pubs dry is an art my friend >To which I have given much attention >But when the old body says no more >Must seek out a new direction >Face the world stick out your chin >Go out and sniff at the sun >And as for life that wondrous thing >Pretend it's just begun >Love and women and sex are no good >They only cause you pain >So be a boy just ten years old >And summer come again >You and I we played by a stream >Watching the horses trot >Those were the days of bracken green >Before the trees were cut >The lawns were great for a croquet bash >But I preferred the woods >There's something magic there in the green >In silence with the rooks >Nettles and thistles and midges that sting >The smell of a festering pool >Are lost in the image of bird in tree >Come to conduct his school >But the horses best I remember the meet >The height of black and pink >A chestnut pawing at her bit >A silver tankard's clink >And the fox we chased along with the car >Long hounds stretched in pursuit >Low hedges chopping up the hunt >As hunters changed their foot >And then the fox was away in the wood >The hounds had been too slow >We weren't to get our taste of the brush >Not for a year or so >When life's gone foul go back to roots >And find who you really are >For there is no sense in living out >An act for fifty year >If you give love then you'll get it back >That's what the fates decree >And sometimes throw in as bonus >The love that none can see >But where is the magic to forget the past >And repair the damage done >Must the record ever stick its groove >And the tankard drunk on the lawn > > >for Robert Frost > >29 October 1967 %%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%