The Poet

The poet's voice, a lonely flute From the grotto of orphaned dreams, And Sorrow the arms which wrap him 'Til e'en they grow frail, and falter, Thus failing, cast him down- A writhing soul unblest By fair Sleep's last kiss... His word, a sword And princely thing! His power firm, and curse- For his the alighting of Heaven's sighs Or a phrase to stymie giants... Tho his thousand sonnets tribute Roses, Nary a one will bed him- For his the rage of the seeking Winds Which howl through gardened graves, A midnight dance of madness By angels peopled and tears companioned... Thus, then, he lives, As touching the Dark, And then the Dark awakens...