Joseph Campbell Poems

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The Old Woman

As a white candle
In a holy place,
So is the beauty
Of an aged face.


The little fires that Nature lights -
The scilla's lamp, the daffodil -
She quenches, when of stormy nights
Her anger whips the hill.

I Am The Mountainy Singer

I am the mountainy singer-
The voice of the peasant's dream,
The cry of the wind on the wooded hill,
The leap of the fish in the stream.

The Blind Man At The Fair

O TO be blind!
To know the darkness that I know.
The stir I hear is empty wind,
The people idly come and go.

The Hills Of Cualann

In the youth of summer
The hills of Cualann
Are two golden horns,
Two breasts of childing,

On Waking

SLEEP, gray brother of death,
Has touched me,
And passed on.

At Harvest

Earth travails,
Like a woman come to her time.

The swaying corn-haulms