XXII. 

When winter’s white breath muffles the earth 

And her powdered hair buries the last red leaf,

All below sleep and wait for a green rebirth,    

For she is an unsure though thorough thief. 

Beneath our steps the land is brightly swept

As she grins behind her vast veil of gray,

Whispering new songs to a fresh adept 

Of the still, shortened, and formless day.  

In this bare sameness, where is judgment? 

Where is love, hate, or daft melancholy?

They die together in a glacial current 

To dress the emerald leaves of holly. 

Lie next to me, and when we are emptied 

Nature will send a more renewing seed.

 

XXIII.

For how long has my pen hung fallow

Like a withered petal bowing before death? 

For what beauty could in daylight grow, 

Amidst only the egress of life and breath? 

For how long will these lost shapes give chase,

And how long will I remain in pursuit

Of forms I can catch but cannot trace,

Whose cries crumble together, stupid and mute.

The day’s clamor births again ash and ruin

Which morning’s touch will duly erase  

While we lie above and upon the din 

In the stillness of moonlight’s embrace.  

I will return to my art, resume my role, 

And take back what drab life nearly stole.

 

XXIV. 

Who is made less restless by the fading stars

Or the falling blinds of the graveled day?

Comely patience, a traitor who mars 

When by these wonted scenes is set astray,

Believing the hours will be laid and stored

By our tomorrows with care and prudence. 

So, by some, lovers are often implored

To rot with the passing seasons, as students 

Of nature’s unhurried harmony, 

Whose measured strains are seldom our own

And doubtful wisdom is what we do not see,

For there our sights in a self-same way intone. 

Our love is neither early nor late

Apart or near, we need not race nor wait.

 

XXV.

I feel we are bound by darting whims

Which unite us, then wane with the hour,

Carelessly scattered across the floor 

Until our matching dullnesses devour

The crumbs left in what was a honeyed store.

What then can keep our appetites fanned

As tastes turn bitter or are drably gone,

When all we have savored becomes bland

And all our aimless cravings withdrawn? 

Our next course may match what we forsook

Yet it will become, like the last, just as plain.

We will be by fresh horizons overtook,

Mistaking sunlight for dismal rain.

Let my tastes press through a finer sieve, 

So neither passion nor longing find reprieve.

 

XXVI.

And what if our doings are doomed to fade, 

Joy with spite, soft glances with hard travails? 

Side-by-side in the earth they will be laid 

As the embalming word’s substance fails.  

Does even an emblem of love remain 

Once our offspring wander from their source? 

Slowly they and those after will seize our rein,   

But was it not our hands that set their course? 

Our acts and days form a nameless parchment 

Which all after us will unwittingly read 

Knowing not how or by whom it was sent 

Because what is begotten will again breed. 

Forgotten? No, our own will fill our stead 

For love goes on, leaving no steps untread. 

 

XXVII. 

Can we call these days, however spent, our debts? 

From whom and for what could I recollect 

Those fresh evenings. My flesh now regrets

My dogged longing, their only effect.

But on which record could they be tallied? 

And our time belongs to whose account? 

Apart we are dormant, together rallied 

To stop the storm of wishing, and dismount

From the well-worn steeds of Hope and Dismay, 

Who charge to silted streams with leaden hooves. 

Beyond which the ambitions of the faceless lay,

On the cold land our love deftly reproves.  

If our distance can be called today’s curse, 

Let us again our tomorrows rehearse.  

 

XXVIII. 

Should we call affection a battered thing,

Whose substance has left, though its appearance

Remains, at once steadfast and wavering

For so sudden then so slow an advance

Leaves lesser loves to be devoured,

For what rises with spirit’s pure decree

Is what rose, budded, bloomed, and is showered

At the fount of unfailing sincerity.

Others would say we are destined to go

As all things are doomed to lose their light

To the heralds of what we cannot know,

Who leave the mighty moldered and slight.

Let others court their fears and talk of odds

For faith casts asunder men and their gods.