In the wood’s heart
There is light
And there is dark.
The poet finds
Delight
With woodland
Nymphs.
For girls
Of the mind
Are never bland.
The Poet’s Mind
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Tag Archives: nymphs
Heat
Walking through the wood
In this weather hot
I think on should,
And should not.
I shall be good.
But, I have heard tell
That nymphs herein
Dwell.
Some say, that they
Are shy.
I shall stare at the sky
For, therein,
Sin
Is not.
Above, the hot
Sky,
Whilst below
Nymphs go
By.
Oh What Would I Give To See Where Nymphs Live
Oh what would I give
To see where nymphs live!
Strolling through forest glade
I have met
Many a staid maid.
I regret
That, on my way
Through forest green
I have never seen
Flighty Aphrodite.
But, perchance
I may
Join nymphs in their dance
One day,
And hear Pan’s pipes play.
Pan’s Pipe
Pan plays on his pipe
To the delight
Of woodland nymphs.
Who have, long since
Ceased to see,
In his ageing pipe,
Beyond the delight
Of his poetry.
In Woods Green
In woods green
Nymphs were sometimes seen
By mortal men.
Now when
Girls I see in short clothes,
Their toes
Bare, to the sultry air
I wonder where
All the inocence has gone.
Yet Aphrodite
Was flighty
(Was she not?,
And on hot
London nights
Phone calls will be made
And visits paid
By aphrodite, to oh so mortal men
Libidinous
Nature is libidinous they say.
Yet on my way
Through the woods today
No nymphs did I spy.
Though perchance
They performed a hidden dance
Amongst the budding tree
But not for me.
Some Find Their Muse In Forests Green
Some find their muse in forests green
Where the nymph (so rarely seen)
Is brought to life on paper.
Many a romantic caper
Takes place on virgin page,
That pristine stage
Where maid
Is forever staid.
Other poets reach their sweating hand
Towards the lone phone,
So as to command
For a while,
A nymph’s enigmatic smile
Pan
They say
That nymphs play
In the ancient wood.
Yet as I stood
There yesterday,
No nymphs did play.
Waking this morning
I sensed a warning
In rock.
Mysteries may unlock
As Pan pipes play,
But the nymphs they
Will not stay
Narcissus
While gazing in the glass
She heard a mocking laugh.
On looking behind
She did find
Narcissus lounging on the bed.
“What, you here? again!” she said
The Sprite’s Tune
The nymph of tomorrow
Portends sorrow,
While the sprite of today
Sounds a doleful lay
On her violin
Of sin.
Round the budding rose
The satyr goes,
Listening to music sad
That will drive him mad.
the sprites continue to play.
There music divine
Does say
“Drink of my wine
Forbidden
And in caverns hidden
We will spend our day”.
The satyr doth long
For wine more strong
Than any taken
Before.
He tastes, and is left forsaken
And forever craving more.
K Morris - Poet 