Pounding up the dusty trail

wending wide o’er field and fen

through dark shadow, over vale

and past the realm of mortal men.

Rides on high the Kavalcade

the steed of desperate wild light

the flash in sun-glare’s gleaming raid

that whisks like shivers in the night.

It gleams like shining, liquid air

but wears it’s light-ness like a cloak

to mask the deep of dark and drear

a promised light that turns to smoke.

It bears a note of dreadful doom

the shock that numbs the autumn heart

in stabs like ice-knives chill and gloom,

the pointed shaft of awful art.

Beware the steed, avoid the moor

that takes you by its illsome path.

Countless thousands, wounded poor,

have found their fate, much worse than death.

Once taste the prick, or feel the sting

of thorny barb from arrow dark

and all the light and eager spring

flees your eyes and steals their spark.

The one once pierced by arrow fell

wiles his life in driftless clouds

still working, moving, seeming well

but lost in hopeless—unaroused.

Thus he lives, but never spies

the splash of white-lace in the trees,

and glances dull at evening skies

and shakes his head in dullest freeze.

One chance only, one remains

the sooner choiced the sooner sure,

seek the seat where Varin’s strains

blow like wind upon the shore.

Seek at sunset, while the rays

be-splash the sky in gasps of gold

close your eyes and hear the lays

and feel the life-grace strong and old.

Hear anon, and only here

and only on a Midnight’s day,

the ancient songs can fill the ear,

restore the heart, and mend the fray.

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Photo by Roberto Nickson: https://www.pexels.com