The Woods Poem by Elliott Rosenberg

The Woods
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Have you ever made love in the woods,
To a lady of a certain court,
Next to a crying sylph,
congenial with every thought.

Desired as a popish recusant,
Pale green with emerald hair,
Arabella's strife nurtures,
lacking vicissitude of emotion.

Mollycoddled in exiguous form,
Her trust thy lord deflowered,
By the lock of a weeping willow,
Revolt did he dismay.

She is the daughter of the River,
entwined in a meandoring forest;
Reflecting heartfelt bliss,
towards a fallen roman soldier.

For Petre was divine,
a foe beseeching grandeur,
tempest in a tea cup,
novice for a lover.

Arcadian I am in solace,
an antrum for an assylum;
Steering toward a chasm,
Cast under enigmatic umbrage.

As years engender mildly,
Where one is king alone,
My queen has ridden off,
to the burial grounds of charlock.

In these elysian fields of hemlock,
all hail its saints of armour,
For gods mercy has unlocked, my hoary clevis of chastity.

Honor shall betide,
Uprooting cowardly moons,
Fretting the nightly sky,
With an angelican emancipacion.

Now that man has rested,
Uplifted his haggard eyes,
Must woman need receive?
A lordships protegee.

By the levee of tower hill,
Is where lady Suffolk stood,
Lisping gentle hymns,
Of Allegri's Miserere.

Succumbed to a heroes tomb,
Jane Grey understood,
Nine days of royal cadence,
On the northside of the woods.