It is the habit of the poet
To think of Godly things where
God has never lived,
And light the paths hidden
From the sun.
But we, the men who carve
The ample word, the apt and
The ones who founded grace that once
Should know quite well between
Our intercessions, we are
Too drunk on self to be worthy
Of either God or sun.
And in the pustuled dusk, where
Clouds have gathered one last time,
Their curious grins swollen with tears,
We walk a spell beneath
And think on happiness a-day.
As far as I can reckon, being such a
Prophet-poet—and all men are, to
Their degree—the silence of my prayers,
Uttered honest as each man may, is
Forewith netted up to heaven. And there,
Is Good at least to those who need it
Least. And among us, being most, I stand
Alone. Before me,
The wit and wile of the world play on
To never-ending madness:
The dour spend their lives as currency for
Not at all, and poor-ness feeds the lusting maw of men.
The short and tempest of us—with nature’s
Clouds and soddering sun convened—
Have seen the mystery beguile nothing
But why the paper draws on
Figures of a desperate dying.
If I were to perceive—youth forgive me!—
Around that dying dusk, where we are now obliged to go,
It surely has escaped me now.
For all I have to say, once rich and deeply
Felt, is how much there is
And little do I know.