When I pass thy door at night poetry



In the strange destiny of men
I must confess to be lost
Or having gone astray
To have gained little in action

Accomplished little with art
But loved the silver songs
Of guess and soul’s weight
With human flight, I have loved

Gone wrong, chided, sworn
What a lover Sappho was
In my merry mind, the indignity
Of poverty, the distance of loneliness

I lived lazy hours and soft summers
With little to show, strange and far
Until my heart stopped for
Wild, keen, tender trembling

Making magic music in the dark
The life of a poet, that was my lover
In the blue foothills of faint and dimming dreams.

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