David McLansky

Freshman - 991 Points (5/24/1944 / New York City)

The Oaten Bride (6) - Poem by David McLansky

Her hair is oaten like her cloak
Her supple limbs gleam in the smoke;
On her head an oaten crown
Formed of stalks woven round

What bride upon her wedding night
Lays so secure with heart so light;
What joy blooms there upon her cheek;
She smiles with pride she cannot speak.

The moon does summon as a bell
The ancient stalk does rise and swell
The groom descends to claim his prize:
The barren Earth is fertilized.


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Poem Submitted: Wednesday, September 25, 2013

Poem Edited: Wednesday, September 25, 2013


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