Will O' The Wisp, Page 1 Of 2 Poem by John Bliven Morin

The cypress of the swamp grow tall,
garlanded in gray moss they stand;
surrounded by their jutting knees
that rise up from the marsh and sand.

In the hours ‘tween dusk and dawn,
when the wind blows cool and crisp
in the distance, not far, flash
the lights called will o’ the wisp

The eerie lights go dancing, moving,
flickering, flashing in the dark;
beckoning, teasing, come-to-me;
who or what applies the spark?

The quarter moon was rising slowly
Over dark’ning bog and fen
Jem had to find the will o’ the wisp
If it took an hour or ten.

“Hoke, help me push the pram;
Get in and paddle here with me;
let’s find out for ourselves just what
that flickering thing can be.”

“I’ll go, but Cousin Jem I find
that faraway flashing fright’ning
It reminds of a stormy night
and the distant glow of light’ning! ”

“Don’t be a coward, Hoke.
I know your heart is strong;
pick up your paddle, cousin, row!
I know this can’t be wrong.”

“I see only darkness, Jem,
the lights have disappeared;
please, I beg you turn back now,
those lights are strange and weird.”

“Hoke, there it is again!
The lights are over there...
No wait, they’ve gone away again,
I can’t see them anywhere.”

“There’s the flash, row harder Hoke!
They’re moving further on;
We’ve got to catch them if we can...
Durn! again they’re gone! ”