‘Tis not to regret our idle hours
Those busy days passed without event
The holy verse trampled sense

Until the beginning of poetry
When all wit came alive and went
To muses that confessed
To reach the nobler side of men
And search for purity of the heart
And praise the World’s secrets

Not for happy free-will but
To share Nature’s love a while yet
‘Tis not to indulge in the evasive Soul

But to drape the unknown with quiet looks
And words that may have preferred silence
I like too much to sing, without notes
Of how the music sounds in melodies
Of poetry’s sweetest epiphanies!

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To Death Are We All Bestirred


All souls of those I loved
Remain translated inside of me
Like a body of literature compact
A bright array of time’s swinging singularities

So many harps hung upon the balconies
All these guitars twanging for
Cheer divine, our star like courses
Comprehend the racing years

In wordless ascension towards our
Own kinds of bliss, mortal hearings
We are garlands of quatrains
Stanzas of the unyielding Almighty’s word

How we endure like spoken flutes
Of alien thresholds, invisible feelings
I am not sure, all spirits of those I treasured
Remain like jewelled ornaments

On the lips of children not my own
They will not take the earth by force
But by the bodies of their subtlety.