Avalon

There was glory on the windy street
As he went stumbling home,
For the grape had climbed to a lofty seat
Under the tippling dome,
And he heard the grog in a jubilant hum
Pounding the casks of Christendom
Yet something absent plagued his mind -
Change that would not be changed.
The blossoms blew upon the wind.
Horns rang - as he arranged -
But he could not charm to the tinselled air
A golden presence once known there...

The spring had power; the streets grew dark.
He sought in hopeful tryst,
At door and window's slitted spark
The vision that he missed,
The final grace to seal the spell,
The shadow that was Rosabelle...

Fair Rosabelle was not abroad.
Could he call the journey waste?
At least he declared himself not awed
By the wonder of the spires interlaced
On the heavenward towers of Avalon,
For he looked, -and towers cracked and were gone...

He commanded no other sort of magic
As he went shambling home,
But he sat on the doorsteps finding it tragic
(Under a tippling dome)
To face a snow and a bleak wind slanting
Or within, a cold voice, peevish and ranting.

-Donald Davidson