Hardly myself – until the midnight hour
Of reckoning, when scales of ill and praise
Are husked away and to the inward glower
Alone can there be judgment of my days.
Unfettered from the swell and weight of lust,
The claims of ire, ambition’s siren prize –
Such peace! Only in darkness can I trust
The testimony of my self-surmise.
Darkling I shape and press what is most best
In service to a goal beyond our ken,
And boldly set my mettle to a test
Of freedom that would harrow slavish men.
Most true and most in rhyme with love’s achieve
Will bring us happiness astride the grave.
An open door
A vacant room
"I'm tired now.
A glance away
A dinner cold
No washing up
But in the night
Of humming things
And in the night
Of warming earth
A passing girl
It's Spring again
Nearing the frost that age confers on skill --
Our suppleness in handiwork constrained,
Our wits imagining more readily ill
Where there is none, honor too quickly stained,
Revenge on all the world a burgeoning aim
Until the impotence of flesh arrests
Such wantonness, its wake a lightless flame
Of bleak-born brain-undoing tinsel quests --
Why is it difficult to see that love
Depends not on alacrity but most
On kindness' depth and the compounding trove
Of stored affection to renew its host?
Our age's weakness is our weakness' myth:
Passion's ripe tender freshens passion's pith.
Come with me a little while
In the lightly falling snow
Show me your unfrozen smile
As we go
Show me your determined mien
As the wind begins to blow
Let me take your arm unseen
In the snow
Tell me that you love me, dear
Even if it isn’t so
Breathe a word to banish fear
As we slow
Kiss me in a quiet spot
There is no one who can know
Whether love is true or not