When Marvell's gardens won't suffice We row our minds to paradise And find ourselves on distant shores At home by hearth in marshy moors Where fires parch poetic tongues With songs of love both wrote and sung By angels warmed near Brigid's flame; To me, this ode, ascribe no blame.
"Tis love that brought us to this shore Where minstrels dance to ancient lore, As Psyche opens Golden Box And Pan proclaims upon that rock That Fanny Brawne plays hard to get As Keats from casement oft did fret. Sonnets, odes and poet's parched tongue, Saskia knows her heart is won.
"Red cherries ripe!" blue cherries cry In search of hope 'yond darkened sky; "Half-sick of shadows," John would stroke, But shadows fill the heavens with hope. Now roll those kettles, sound that brass, Hoist up the flag, give hope some gas; Saskia's sword she now unsheathes. So shall we march? We were bequeath'd! Stick of lavender gave me three; Love words declare, my heart decrees.
Camelot's road, by boat we row'd With drums and brass and love thus tow'd On streams so wide, show hues of blue; Streaks of indigo, shades of you. Saskia knows of thus I speak Her heart was broken at its peak. Stick of sandalwood gave me four O, dearest love, there is much more.
The ravens caw in harmony Three parts of two, but not for me. For me there's you, my part of one, And so, my love, we've now begun To sing love's song, to beat fire's drum To dance upon world's stage wide flung. Of sixes, sevens William wrote To keep chaos across the moat. The bridge be ours to raise or lo'er; Nightingales, larks may now cross o'er.
Rustling ravens 'pon winds do spread Their wings in flight: now cometh dread! Of night's shores that seas can see: Ithaca, Troy, and Bimini. A stick of myrrh, the final three As armies march, small children flee The dread that came from Earth's distrust Of fools that walked upon Her crust They took and take then took again, With dire contempt they churned chagrin So let them die the death deserved, With sentence passed, we both avered.
Nevermore shall ravens this way pass Our deed is done, though true love lasts For ere in ancient lore and song Through minstrels' tears and hearts of stone. Soft shadows rest on maiden's breasts Saskia breathes this fine behest: "Wise men of Troy, to thee I call And greet thee well from Wotan's Hall. "To you I claim our victory. For love of Earth and raven's glee With drums and brass and memories Of him, my love, my gentle breeze. O, Men of Troy canst thou not tell Crestfallen will ne'er wear me well, Great love dismisses simple cloy, Two hearts for ere abiding joy."