Love is Essential
Love is essential
Sex, mere accident
Can be
Or different
Love is essential
Sex, mere accident
Can be
Or different
How many masks wear we, and undermasks,
Upon our countenance of soul, and when,
If for self-sport the soul itself unmasks,
Knows it the last mask off and the face plain
I am tired, that is clear,
Because, at certain stage, people have to be tired
Of what I am tired,
I don't know:
Like to a ship that storms urge on its course,
By its own trials our soul is surer made
The very things that make the voyage
Do make it better; its peril is its aid
Whether we write or speak or do but
We are ever unapparent
What we
Cannot be transfused into word or book
When I should be asleep to mine own
In telling thee how much thy love's my dream,
I find me listening to myself, the
Of my words othered in my hearing them
But no, she's abstract, is a
Of sound in the air of air soaring,
And her soul sings
Because the song's what makes her sing
When I do think my meanest line shall
More in Time's use than my creating whole,
That future eyes more clearly shall feel
In this inked page than in my direct soul;
When I am sitting at the window,
Through the panes, which the snow blurs,
I see the lovely images, hers,
She passes… passes… passes by…Over me grief has thrown its veil:-Less a creature in this
Hate you,
Christ,
I do not, or seek
I
If, after I die, they should want to write my biography,
There's nothing simpler
I've just two dates - of my birth, and of my death
In between the one thing and the other all the days aremine
How can I think, or edge my thoughts to action,
When the miserly press of each day's
Aches to a narrowness of spilled
My soul appalled at the world's work's time-greed