The Valley of Unrest

…from the quills of the dead white poets

Edgar Allan Poe (1809 – 1849)

      Once it smiled a silent dell
       Where the people did not dwell;
       They had gone unto the wars,
       Trusting to the mild-eyed stars,
       Nightly, from their azure towers,
       To keep watch above the flowers,
       In the midst of which all day
       The red sunlight lazily lay.
       Now each visitor shall confess
       The sad valley's restlessness.
       Nothing there is motionless-
       Nothing save the airs that brood
       Over the magic solitude.
       Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees
       That palpitate like the chill seas
       Around the misty Hebrides!
       Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven
       That rustle through the unquiet Heaven
       Uneasily, from morn till even,
       Over the violets there that lie
       In myriad types of the human eye-
       Over the lilies there that wave
       And weep above a nameless grave!
       They wave:- from out their fragrant tops
       Eternal dews come down in drops.
       They weep:- from off their delicate stems
       Perennial tears descend in gems.

About Paul Jacko

Jacko was born in Czechoslovakia not long before the communist putsch in February 1948. He studied industrial chemistry there and left in 1969 for Australia, where he became a lawyer and established his own practice. He has now retired and beside hunting, fishing, camping, prospecting and playing golf he amuses himself by writing.
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