Naas, winter 2003
Her senseless mercy shines upon you still
And tempers time and grief with pins of joy;
None but the purest heart would dare employ
That snare of kind and poisonous goodwill.
The worried walk away from beauty's sight
Is set with foreign voices faintly heard.
Into the fog a line of lanterns blurred
Warms the sleeping stillness of the night.
Then rise and face the winter's silver dawn
That over mist-strewn fields pours,
For crowds of stars and mountains are yet yours:
A lover's balm for pity's gentle thorn.
I think we can all be forgiven for turning to poetry once at some point in our lives.
Though leaves are many, the root is one;
ReplyDeleteThrough all the lying days of my youth
I swayed my leaves and flowers in the sun;
Now I may wither into the truth.
I thought WB Yeats was dead.
ReplyDeleteI wonder why Yeats never grew out of writing poetry.
ReplyDeleteProbably because he was good at it.
ReplyDeleteHey, I remember that phase. That was when you still wrote to me. Yes, you SHOULD feel guilty.
ReplyDeleteMrs. Lily Roth