John Bliven Morin

Rookie (September 16th,1936 / New London, CT)

The Moor-Maiden - Poem by John Bliven Morin

The village youths lightheartedly
Dance to the tabor and the flute,
Dance to the piper and the lute,
To celebrate Midsummer’s Day.

Every lad with shining eyes
Looks upon each comely girl,
Looks at her with skirts a-whirl,
And he with longing, softly sighs.

But suddenly in their midst appears
A strange young maid with long, dark hair,
A strange young maid with features fair,
Far fairer than their village dears.

And all the young men gather ‘round,
Hoping each to have a dance;
Hoping each to find romance,
To the music’s sensuous sound.

The stranger takes in turn each lad,
Past the villagers she whirls;
Past the glowering of the girls,
Each lad, with love for her is mad.

And when the music begins to slow,
She chooses John from all the rest;
She chooses John who she likes best;
Holding hands, they lightly go

Away from the music and the play,
Through the fields and wooded bowers;
Through the meadows bright with flowers,
Leads she John Midsummer’s Day.

And it’s been many a year since then,
Since the Moor-Maid danced with John;
Since they danced and then were gone,
And John returned never again.

Out on the moors there is a spring;
If you look inside, they say,
If you look Midsummer’s Day,
You’ll see a young lad struggling;

Down, down, deep down inside,
Struggling, with silent scream;
Struggling as in a dream;
Forever there he must abide.


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Poem Submitted: Monday, May 30, 2011

Poem Edited: Monday, May 30, 2011


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