These Hallowed Halls

a young Romantic Poet mourns the passing of an age . . .

I.

A final stereo fades into silence

and now there is seldom a murmur

to trouble the slumber 

of these ancient halls.

I stand by a window where others have watched

the passage of time, alone, 

not untouched,

and I am as they were"

                                        unsure, 

and the days

stretch out ahead, 

a bewildering maze.

II.

Ah, faithless lover" 

that I had never touched your breast,

nor felt the stirrings of my heart,

which until that moment had peacefully slept.

For now I have known the exhilaration

of a heart that has leapt from the pinnacle of love,

and the result of every infatuation"

the long freefall to earth, as the moon glides above.

III.

A solitary clock chimes the hour 

from far above the campus,

but my peers, 

returning from their dances, 

heed it not.

And so it is

that we seldom gauge Time’s speed

because He moves so unobtrusively

about His task. 

Still, when at last 

we reckon His mark upon our lives,

we may well be surprised 

at His thoroughness.

IV.

Ungentle maiden" 

when Time has etched His little lines

so carelessly across your brow,

perhaps I will love you less than now.

And when cruel Time has stolen

your youth, as He certainly shall in course,

perhaps you will wish you had taken me

along with my broken heart,

even as He will take you with yours.

V.

A measureless rhythm rules the night"

few have heard it,

but I have shared it,

and its secret is mine.

To put it into words 

is as to extract the sweetness from honey

and must be done as gently 

as a butterfly cleans its wings.

But when it is captured, it is gone again;

its usefulness is only 

that it lulls to sleep.

VI.

So sleep, my love, to the cadence of night,

to the moans of the moonlit hills

that groan as I do, yet somehow sleep

through the nightjar’s cryptic trills.

But I will not sleep this night, nor any . . .

how can I, when my dreams

are always of your perfect face

ringed in whorls of fretted lace,

and a tear upon your pillowcase?

VII.

If I had been born when knights roamed the earth

and mad kings ruled foreign lands,

I might have turned to the ministry, 

to the solitude of a monastery.

But there are no monks or hermits today"

theirs is a lost occupation

carried on, if at all, 

merely for sake of tradition.

For today man abhors solitude"

he craves companions, song and drink,

seldom seeking a quiet moment, 

to sit alone by himself, to think.

VIII.

And so I cannot shut myself 

off from the rest of the world,

to spend my days in philosophy 

and my nights in tears of self-sympathy.

No, I must continue as best I can, 

and learn to keep my thoughts away

from those glorious, uproarious moments of youth, 

centuries past though lost but a day.

IX.

Yes, I must discipline myself 

and adjust to these lackluster days

when men display no chivalry 

and romance is the "old-fashioned" way.

X.

A single stereo flares into song 

and the first faint light of morning

has pierced the sky's black awning 

once again.

XI.

This is a sacred place, 

for those who leave, 

leave better than they came.

But those who stay, while they are here,

add, with their sleepless nights and tears,

quaint sprigs of ivy to the walls

of these hallowed halls.