(no subject)
Before the storm arrives, before the wind
That rakes the sour heavens north to west
Makes its argument against our kind,
I stake the right to sing against the wind.
The valleys moan in river-throated voices.
The forests shake their fingers in remorse.
The hills that hunch their shoulders in aversion
Cannot quell the swell of windy voices.
In the airy chorus that advances,
Brooms of anger sweeping down the sky,
My voice is bent, bereft of future tenses,
Incompetent against the gale's advances.
Still the voice will spill, the story tell
Of Oz's ancient days and hero days.
If none to hear it, none shall hear it well,
Told well until the poet's voice is still.
--Gregory Maguire
Every time I read this thing, I fall right back in love. *is so much fail*
That rakes the sour heavens north to west
Makes its argument against our kind,
I stake the right to sing against the wind.
The valleys moan in river-throated voices.
The forests shake their fingers in remorse.
The hills that hunch their shoulders in aversion
Cannot quell the swell of windy voices.
In the airy chorus that advances,
Brooms of anger sweeping down the sky,
My voice is bent, bereft of future tenses,
Incompetent against the gale's advances.
Still the voice will spill, the story tell
Of Oz's ancient days and hero days.
If none to hear it, none shall hear it well,
Told well until the poet's voice is still.
--Gregory Maguire
Every time I read this thing, I fall right back in love. *is so much fail*