Dear heart, you give me everything,
Which leaves you more than everything-
Though those who dare give nothing
Might judge it left you less than nothing.
Giving you everything,
I too, who once had nothing,
Am left with more than everything
As gifts for those with nothing
Who need, if not our everything,
At least a loving something.
Similar Posts
The youngest poet down the shelves was fumbling
From which the ancient poet was mum-mumblingA song about some Lovers at a Fair,Pulling his long white beard and gently grumblingThat rhymes were beastly things and never there.And as I groped, the whole time I was thinkingAbout the tragic poem I’d been writing,…An old man’s life of beer and whisky drinking,His years of kidnapping and…
Feet and faces tingle
Legs wobble and go wingle,You scarce can stand.The skies are jewelled all around,The ploughshare snaps in the iron ground,The Finn with face like paperAnd eyes like a lighted taperHurls his rough runeAt the wintry moonAnd stamps to mark the tune.
A Valentine
The hunter to the husbandmanPays tribute since our love began,And to love-loyalty dedicatesThe phantom kills he meditates.Let me embrace, embracing you,Beauty of other shape and hue,Odd glinting graces of which noneShone more than candle to your sun;Your well-kissed hand was beckoning meIn unfamiliar imagery.Smile your forgiveness: each bright ghostDives in love’s glory and is lostYielding…
It doesn’t matter what’s the cause,
A curse for treaties, bonds and laws,When we’re to do the fighting!And since we lads are proud and true,What else remains to do?Lucasta, when to France your manReturns his fourth time, hating war,Yet laughs as calmly as he canAnd flings an oath, but says no more,That is not courage, that’s not fear—Lucasta he’s a Fusilier,And…
When outside the icy rain
Shall I tie my restive brainSnugly under shelter?Shall I make a gentle songHere in my firelit study,When outside the winds blow strongAnd the lanes are muddy?With old wine and drowsy meatsAm I to fill my belly?Shall I glutton here with Keats?Shall I drink with Shelley?Tobacco’s pleasant, firelight’s good:Poetry makes both better.Clay is wet and so…
Down, wanton, down! Have you no shame
Or Beauty’s, presto! up you raiseYour angry head and stand at gaze?Poor bombard-captain, sworn to reachThe ravelin and effect a breach–Indifferent what you storm or why,So be that in the breach you die!Love may be blind, but Love at leastKnows what is man and what mere beast;Or Beauty wayward, but requiresMore delicacy from her squires.Tell…