The Wanderer


Home Articles Essays Interviews Poetry Miscellany Reviews Books Archives Links


Too restless for monastic usages,

Our prince embarks upon his cryptic Quest…

No diamond torn out of the worm-holed earth,

Its first fires kindled by the noontide’s blaze,

Could have been more estranged from its dank deep

Than is this child from all its favored haunts.


But whither wends our pallid pilgrim's path?



From dreams he came, in dreams fares forth now to seek,

O’er sund'ring seas, that watercolor clime,

Where Volk in goodly guise sigh descants sweet;

Where sunlight glosses greensward to the strand,

Where inenarrable delight holds court,

Far from our Age of Iron and its rue.