The poet, of course, has presently no wall, and no more beautiful plate. But the poem remains. It remains.

*****

Recorded Reading (1:22): https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fi/82skkyt0oar8bw7wwowk3/Castles-in-the-Sand.mp3?rlkey=jxr17fhy2stahsybe35792608&dl=0

*****

Castles in the Sand

There’s a plate upon my wall
Don’t know what it’s made of, at all,
But it could not give me more pleasure
If it were most precious treasure —

Indeed, of antiquity,
When its finest jewels see,
There little approaching is,
For beautiful fine artwork, this:

A nine-inch disk of cameo
Upon a cloudy background go
Wherein two hopeful lovers sit
Midst trees, by brooklet — all of it

So faithfully recorded, they
Take me to that fair place away
With young lovers ‘neath the leaves,
Feel the crisply searching breeze

Which blows her ribbons some awry —
They know not how nearly I
Heed their speaking; hopeful and
Illusion-filled, right out of hand!

She knows not yet his snores will be
The death of sleep’s felicity
Forever after that sweet day
Their wedding coach takes them away

Nor he her tendency to lie —
Let them discover by and by
Leave them this moment to command
The castles they build in the sand

*****

This poet presently lives at a fraction of her nation’s poverty level.

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