Mustapha Mosi Gomina Poet Romanticism

Evening Grief

How high my hopes I 
humbly heap
To weed my sorrows, 
rest to own
How loneliness, I seem to 
keep
How deep in grief, my 
heart is sown.

No cue of cheerful 
compromise
Nor mercy, vast as land or 
sea
Nor velvet clouds a-strow 
the skies
To lend me tears and 
chastity.

I've sprouted lust off 
deary friends
And lost the glorious sea 
of love
Whither I rolled in Heav'n 
descends
Whither I slept on arms 
above.

What webs I've woven, 
blindly still
In words so dark, so vile 
and vain
And roughly, fast, I fall to 
ill
And bath in showers of 
growing pain.

The winds of sorrow, 
forth and back
Are blown so oft, I pale to 
grief
And piece to piece, I 
drown to black
And piece from piece, I 
lose relief.

Alas! I curl to living-part
To sleep as infants new 
to breath
The art I own, I owe to art
In vast regret, I'm swept 
to death.

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