She Who Was Born With Wings.

She Who Was....

There was once a girl,

born with wings.

who flew with falcons,

and oversaw all things.

This beautiful maiden,

with hair like golden silk.

lips like that of plush peaches,

and skin like a glass of milk.

Her wings shone white,

against the sky.

And to watch this girl soar,

could make grown men cry.

She only wore white,

the sheerest of gowns.

Her feet slightly dirty,

a light shade of brown.

She looked like an angel,

Or a Goddess maybe.

Who could dart past a plane,

quicker than the can see.

She Who Was Born With Wings,

was a legend among men.

Who sang them songs of old,

and laughed among them.

However alas she couldn't set,

her feet upon the ground.

For if she did her wings would implode,

without a single sound.

So she was forced to fly alone,

for 20 years in days.

Until she was blessed with a mate.

At least thats what they say.

His wings were black as night,

and turned blue when she was near.

And every night above your head,

their love song you could hear.

These two beautiful beings,

cursed as they were to forever fly.

Were happier than any on the ground,

or those within the sky.

They wished their children,

not to have the same.

To be able to walk among men,

and indulge in child's games.

So when children came,

they were laid on roofs.

Thought to be a an orphan,

which had a ring of truth.

But alas the golden winged girl,

grew old and died with her mate.

But their legend is still spread wide,

up until this very date.

And though we may not believe,

or ponder at such things.

There are still those solemn few,

who dream of She Who Was Born With Wings.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

This is a poem that goes along with my "She Who Was...." poem and fantasy series. So yeah enjoy and give feedback

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No! those days are gone away,
And their hours are old and gray,
And their minutes buried all
Under the down-trodden pall
Of the leaves of many years:
Many times have winter's shears,
Frozen North, and chilling East,
Sounded tempests to the feast
Of the forest's whispering fleeces,
Since men knew nor rent nor leases.
No, the bugle sounds no more,
And the twanging bow no more;
Silent is the ivory shrill
Past the heath and up the hill;
There is no mid-forest laugh,
Where lone Echo gives the half
To some wight, amaz'd to hear
Jesting, deep in forest drear.

On the fairest time of June
You may go, with sun or moon,
Or the seven stars to light you,
Or the polar ray to right you;
But you never may behold
Little John, or Robin bold;
Never one, of all the clan,
Thrumming on an empty can
Some old hunting ditty, while
He doth his green way beguile
To fair hostess Merriment,
Down beside the pasture Trent;
For he left the merry tale
Messenger for spicy ale.

Gone, the merry morris din;
Gone, the song of Gamelyn;
Gone, the tough-belted outlaw
Idling in the "grenè shawe;"
All are gone away and past!
And if Robin should be cast
Sudden from his turfed grave,
And if Marian should have
Once again her forest days,
She would weep, and he would craze:
He would swear, for all his oaks,
Fall'n beneath the dockyard strokes,
Have rotted on the briny seas;
She would weep that her wild bees
Sang not to her--strange! that honey
Can't be got without hard money!

So it is: yet let us sing,
Honour to the old bow-string!
Honour to the bugle-horn!
Honour to the woods unshorn!
Honour to the Lincoln green!
Honour to the archer keen!
Honour to tight little John,
And the horse he rode upon!
Honour to bold Robin Hood,
Sleeping in the underwood!
Honour to maid Marian,
And to all the Sherwood-clan!
Though their days have hurried by
Let us two a burden try.
(By John Keats)

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Early in 1818 John Hamilton Reynolds, a friend of Keats, sent him two sonnets which he had written 'On Robin Hood'. Keats, in his letter of thanks, after giving an appreciation of Reynolds's production, says: 'In return for your Dish of Filberts, I have gathered a few Catkins, I hope they'll look pretty.' Then follow these lines, entitled, 'To J. H. R. in answer to his Robin Hood sonnets.' At the end he writes: 'I hope you will like them--they are at least written in the spirit of outlawry.'

Robin Hood, the outlaw, was a popular hero of the Middle Ages. He was a great poacher of deer, brave, chivalrous, generous, full of fun, and absolutely without respect for law and order. He robbed the rich to give to the poor, and waged ceaseless war against the wealthy prelates of the church. Indeed, of his endless practical jokes, the majority were played upon sheriffs and bishops. He lived, with his 'merry men', in Sherwood Forest, where a hollow tree, said to be his 'larder', is still shown.
Innumerable ballads telling of his exploits were composed, the first reference to which is in the second edition of Langland's Piers Plowman, c. 1377. Many of these ballads still survive, but in all these traditions it is quite impossible to disentangle fact from fiction.

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