Dark Joan
Nora Hopper Chesson
1871 to 1906
As old as Time is, as cold as a stone,
I go on my journey, Dark Joan, Dark Joan.
My cap is made of a quicken-leaf,
And withered it is, my grief, my grief!
My eyes are dark, but they see the soul,
And where Time reads half I can read the whole.
As sad as Death is, I go on my way
And sow, though for harvest I must not stay:
By the Good Folk's passing my face is fanned,
Yet I must not dance in their idle band:
In the raths I hear them, my kindly kin,
But the sorrowful cabins they call me in.
Nora Hopper Chesson's Dark Joan
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