1/28/08
And though my poems prove valueless to men, Woven in this dress of earthly life, Poorly robed and sadly ill-defined Still would I write these lines that drifting down Like snow upon the silent floor of night To honour the muses of eternity. Unskilled as poet and undoubtedly no sage I grasp the hem of thoughts that will not die. I have no private cache of well-turned words Or phrases to impress the literate fold And I would borrow not from other's gold To speak the syllables that alter time. Perhaps these thoughts are chimeras of mind But only in my deeper self I find The key to all our endless questionings And reach the sun-strewn fields where my delight Joins with all the grieving things of earth. I see anew the world with second sight And live the peace that inner silence brings.
---------------- (First published in the journal Gavesana 2009)
Poems Undated (1727)
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