Two lovers by a moss-grown spring:
They leaned soft cheeks together there,
Mingled the dark and sunny hair,
And heard the wooing thrushes sing.
O budding time!
O love's blest prime!

Two wedded from the portal stept:
The bells made happy carolings,
The air was soft as fanning wings,
White petals on the pathway slept.
O pure-eyed bride!
O tender pride!

Two faces o'er a cradle bent:
Two hands above the head were locked:
These pressed each other while they rocked,
Those watched a life that love had sent.
O solemn hour!
O hidden power!

Two parents by the evening fire:
The red light fell about their knees
On heads that rose by slow degrees
Like buds upon the lily spire.
O patient life!
O tender strife!

The two still sat together there,
The red light shone about their knees;
But all the heads by slow degrees
Had gone and left that lonely pair.
O voyage fast!
O vanished past!

The red light shone upon the floor
And made the space between them wide;
They drew their chairs up side by side,
Their pale cheeks joined, and said, "Once more!"
O memories!
O past that is!

Spring comes hither
Buds the rose . . .
Roses wither
Sweet spring goes . . .
O ja là
O ja là . . .
Would she carry me.

Summer soars
Wide-wing'd day . . .
White light pours
Flies away . . .
O ja là
O ja là . . .
Would he carry me.

Soft winds blow
Westward borne . . .
Onward go
Towards the morn
O ja là
O ja là . . .
Would they carry me.

Sweet birds sing
O'er the graves
Then take wing
O'er the waves
O ja là
O ja là . . .
Would they carry me.

Having known war and peace
and loss and finding,
I drink my coffee and wait
for the sun to rise,

With kitchen swept, cat fed,
the day will quiet,
I ******* fifty years
here in the cup.

Outside the green birds come
for bread and water.
Their wings wait for the sun
to show their colours.

I'll show my colours too.
Though we've polluted
even this air I breathe
And spoiled green earth;

though, granted life or death,
death's what we're chosing,
and though these years we live
scar flesh and mind,

still, as the sun comes up
bearing my birthday,
having met time and love
I raise my cup -

dark, bitter, neutral, clean,
sober as the morning -
to all I've seen and known -
to this new sun.

Howe's Final version

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord:
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
He hath loosed the fatal lightning of his terrible swift sword:
His Truth is marching on.

I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps;
They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;
I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps.
His Day is marching on.

I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel:
'As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal;
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,
Since God is marching on.'

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment-seat:
Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet!
Our God is marching on.

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in his ***** that transfigures you and me:
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,
While God is marching on.

2. Howe's First Manuscript Version
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.
He is trampling out the wine press, where the grapes of wrath are stored,
He hath loosed the fateful lightnings of his terrible swift sword,
His truth is marching on.

I have seen him in the watchfires of an hundred circling camps
They have builded him an altar in the evening dews and damps,
I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps,
His day is marching on.

I have read a burning Gospel writ in fiery rows of steel,
As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal
Let the hero born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,
Our God is marching on.

He has sounded out the trumpet that shall never call retreat,
He has waked the earth's dull sorrow with a high ecstatic beat,
Oh! be swift my soul to answer him, be jubilant my feet
Our God is marching on.

In the whiteness of the lilies he was born across the sea
With a glory in his ***** that shines out on you and me,
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,
Our God is marching on.

He is coming like the glory of the morning on the wave
He is wisdom to the mighty, he is sucour to the brave
So the world shall be his footstool, and the soul of Time his slave
Our God is marching on.

You take pride
in the fact
that you
can make me
scream
your name.

I hate that.
I want to deny it
just to get rid
of that stupid smirk
and knowing gleam
in your eye.

Although
I suppose
the ecstasy
(which spawns
all my
inspiration)
our *** life
supplies me with
means I really
shouldn't complain.

You're just a little too
cocky
for my taste.

Recently I've grown to see
the weakness in my mind.
I'm challenged by the ordinary
resentment I always find.
For I have the great power
to forgive and be forgiven,
but I am lacking in drive and manner,
of which this action can be taken.
I will call myself a blamer
upon myself and many others
my hopeless romantic is a failure
but the lack of hope is from my lovers
they caress control and swindle
and leave me broken poor and ******
it leaves the torn up hard to mingle
and the forgotten hard to miss.
So I'll take stock in my conquests,
despite how little they may be,
I will be reborn a celibate
and set my libido free.
Nothing good belongs in deviance,
sinful, ****** or more,
I will retain what is left of my innocence
and forget all from before.

It wraps around me
Pulling me close all the time
Warm and gentle, like you

I wish for it to
Last forever, but I know
It will all end soon

So I hold on and
It holds me, like a tree branch
Holding a small nest

The wind sends me close -
The fruit of the tree, your neck
And its bark, your chest

There I was, in the shower
Rubbing conditioner through my cropped hair
A flashback to warmer weather
Sunny days with verdant grass.

The sisters played sports together
So did we that day
I failed at passes to you,
But I was always sure to make a few at you.

Pastachio we read
Misspelled above the rocky road,
We read and re read
Flavors and each other.

What if I told you that on that day,
I loved you.
Just as much as the cappuccino chip ice cream
Melting all over my hand
You don’t like coffee.
You probably wouldn’t understand

And here’s another sunny day,
The grass still green
The breeze still warm

Throwing ***** from the hill
In those jeans you loved
Count to ten
Highs and lows
We were so close to a perfect score

Then we came in for a quick nap
You would play your games soon
I read sci-fi
You fell asleep
Inside the crook of my arm.

Time to wake up sleepy head.
Off you go,
Get out of bed.
Who would predict
Such an end.