Mists Of Unremembered Travels Poem by Mark Anthony Hanson

O how the time of past and to be
Mixed in the mists of unremembered joy,
Becometh not this frail man, but lo!
How time itself be made a foe,
To vanquish in the unknown might
Which perchance this man could muster still.

O those isles which mine worn tired soles
Have not yet trod with triumph's glee,
Could I claim as places near?
And claim for King in distant home.
For country of which I am heir,
I can now venture into fiefdoms dark.

As journeys which, yes! I have made,
Return back to mind from mists of memory,
Perhaps the time could be friend once more,
And traverse the land beneath mine feet.
To seek out time and sands of shore
With cold wind bite upon myths and lore.

With ventured gains and only distance lost,
To see spires of glory and domes of gold,
Knowing dark fire-lit nights, and frost
Biting upon my face, and lands unknown
Become twist'd and twained
Within the hitherto unknowest fate.

So arise my stallion! Arise my sleeping steed!
In times now not so far ahead
We shall scour this land for heroic souls
And fight a fight that well mayest be fought.
And in bold composure drive away the decrep't
Lonely mists that rot our souls.