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Poetry from within

The Journey Home

Whip-poor-will, Whip-poor-will!

As wintering birds will journey home

The soul of one poor mortal’s flown.

When, once, that plaintive cry is heard

-Untimely harbinger of death.

Whose heart no longer flows with blood

Who broke the golden-round of love?

Why speak of cruel, untimely death

When mist, yet, forms upon my breath?

Ethereal, vaporous in the air

Could Fate, not once, a brave heart spare.

Should I clasp my hands and pray

Would that my journey home delay?

Whip-poor-will, whip-poor will!

Once more to walk well-trodden paths

Those spectral-milestones of the past.

The mountains, valleys, and the seas

Life’s fragrance heady on the breeze.

Whip-poor-will, whip poor-will!

Within this ground where sheep once grazed

Come, rest within your hero’s grave…

‘At peace within his narrow bed

He lives in glory with the dead…’

Robert Carson