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Acolyte, v. 2, issue 4, whole no. 8, Fall 1944
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Swamp Mud I've seen a fog-stained swamp; my brain Has never dared to seek the haunt where wings Of headless swollen things stir pagan blood, Where lisping bubbles rise from mud-clogged lungs. I've only paced the straggling tar terrain, The city's coal-flaked crust; the rancid din And dust absorbs my being. And yet at night I fly through gray stone skiers to hidden hells, And gasp...and crawl through sodden veils of slush And weed...I run from yawning crocodiles. A dream! laud I in havoc fright. At dawn, I stare...my boots are caked with wet swamp mud. ---Sylvia Moore --- --- Strange Entity Her hair floats out across the moon And swirls upon the brackish water, (Catching the wind in rigadoon....) They say she is the devil's daughter. There is no image of her face Upon the lake's black countenance, For evil finds no mirror space When midnight conjures its séance. She is no wisp of fog or mist Nor summer's fleeting omulus; She is the answer to a tryst With a diabolic incubus. ---Cosette Middleton --- --- Brief Song Brief is the hour for shining gossamer wings-- Brief is the vanished glory of the moon, Swift is the hour of dark for all earth-things-- Swift as the muse of song that dies too soon; Surely the hour of another dawn shall come, Robbing these skies of music, silver-tossed, Surely the voice of beauty is not dumb-- Surely the song is not forever lost. The curtains of the west draw slowly near, And silently down the avenues of night, The winds tip-toe, in strange and prudent fear; One star remembers - Polaris with his light Holds high the lantern for the ones who roam-- For wandering spirits to find the pathway home. ---Edythe Hope Genee -- 22 --
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Swamp Mud I've seen a fog-stained swamp; my brain Has never dared to seek the haunt where wings Of headless swollen things stir pagan blood, Where lisping bubbles rise from mud-clogged lungs. I've only paced the straggling tar terrain, The city's coal-flaked crust; the rancid din And dust absorbs my being. And yet at night I fly through gray stone skiers to hidden hells, And gasp...and crawl through sodden veils of slush And weed...I run from yawning crocodiles. A dream! laud I in havoc fright. At dawn, I stare...my boots are caked with wet swamp mud. ---Sylvia Moore --- --- Strange Entity Her hair floats out across the moon And swirls upon the brackish water, (Catching the wind in rigadoon....) They say she is the devil's daughter. There is no image of her face Upon the lake's black countenance, For evil finds no mirror space When midnight conjures its séance. She is no wisp of fog or mist Nor summer's fleeting omulus; She is the answer to a tryst With a diabolic incubus. ---Cosette Middleton --- --- Brief Song Brief is the hour for shining gossamer wings-- Brief is the vanished glory of the moon, Swift is the hour of dark for all earth-things-- Swift as the muse of song that dies too soon; Surely the hour of another dawn shall come, Robbing these skies of music, silver-tossed, Surely the voice of beauty is not dumb-- Surely the song is not forever lost. The curtains of the west draw slowly near, And silently down the avenues of night, The winds tip-toe, in strange and prudent fear; One star remembers - Polaris with his light Holds high the lantern for the ones who roam-- For wandering spirits to find the pathway home. ---Edythe Hope Genee -- 22 --
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