When Love comes singing to his heart
That would not wake for me,
I think that I shall know his joy
By my own ecstasy.

And tho’ the sea were all between,
The time their hands shall meet,
My heart will know his happiness,
So wildly it will beat.

And when he bends above her mouth,
Rejoicing for his sake,
My soul will sing a little song,
But oh, my heart will break.

A feather in the breeze
floating softly through the air
seemingly without destination
as if it has not a care
yet it slows to glide knowingly
past precious little places
and glances down upon the world
into the many faces
It has a heart so fragile
for it's always on the mend
so never actually stopping
for fear it's flight will end

I wanted to say these words
Without hearing myself say them

I wanted to repeat these words
Without having to weigh them

Until I arrive
Am I leaving?
Now in this time
I am grieving.

For my brotherhood
For my meaning
They misunderstood
I wasn’t just dreaming.

A part of destiny
Because they don’t see
What they could be

I have yet arrived to the place
Where I can know
Everything about who I am
Or where I can go

But it’s ok.

Because until I arrive
I am leaving
Now in this time
I am grieving.

I am alive.
I am breathing.

Now this time
My life has meaning.

Never in a backdrop
I wanted to paint images
Of windows shattered

Caste into boxes
Smashed together like trains

I melted wisdom
In complex rain

I waited for blisters
I screamed from callus
I waited for malice

I wanted to paint images
Without being told
I wanted to paint images
Without being sold

Midair captures me
And I don’t care
I wrap up in rapture
Exploding every flare

Afraid of a dark alter
Stomping up infinite steps

Dissipating under me
I am kept

Octagons and windy signs
Captivate me
And my dark eyes

Midair captures me
Exploding every flare
I wrap up in rapture
And I don’t care

Running to forms streams
From race to race
I yell for screams
From face to face

On a plane of peace
Worries and despair
Gone today
But always there

Midair captures me
Exploding every flare
I wrap up in rapture
And I don’t care

What is time to those who wait for it to finish,
from the clicking of the clock
to the clocking off from a shift,
only time can tell, but it doesn't wait for me.

The power of time are all around us everywhere,
from the time of steam and coal
to the power of a few atoms,
only times shows power, but it doesn't wait for me

Sounds of time can always be heard everywhere,
from the creeks and goans of old bridges
to the outcrys of the flocking birds,
only time shows music, but it doesnt wait for me

Beauty in the eye of the beholder always grows everywhere,
from the nature of the water flowing over hillsides
to the imagination of a human being,
only time shows creativity, but it never waits for me

I love too much; I am a river
Surging with spring that seeks the sea,
I am too generous a giver,
Love will not stoop to drink of me.

His feet will turn to desert places
Shadowless, reft of rain and dew,
Where stars stare down with sharpened faces
From heavens pitilessly blue.

And there at midnight sick with faring,
He will stoop down in his desire
To slake the thirst grown past all bearing
In stagnant water keen as fire.

After a year I came again to the place;
The tireless lights and the reverberation,
The angry thunder of trains that burrow the ground,
The hunted, hurrying people were still the same—
But oh, another man beside me and not you!
Another voice and other eyes in mine!
And suddenly I turned and saw again
The gleaming curve of tracks, the bridge above—
They were burned deep into my heart before,
The night I watched them to avoid your eyes,
When you were saying, “Oh, look up at me!”
When you were saying, “Will you never love me?”
And when I answered with a lie. Oh then
You dropped your eyes. I felt your utter pain.
I would have died to say the truth to you.
After a year I came again to the place—
The hunted hurrying people were still the same….

Old Meg she was a Gipsy,
    And liv'd upon the Moors:
Her bed it was the brown heath turf,
    And her house was out of doors.

Her apples were swart blackberries,
    Her currants pods o' broom;
Her wine was dew of the wild white rose,
    Her book a churchyard tomb.

Her Brothers were the craggy hills,
    Her Sisters larchen trees--
Alone with her great family
    She liv'd as she did please.

No breakfast had she many a morn,
    No dinner many a noon,
And 'stead of supper she would stare
    Full hard against the Moon.

But every morn of woodbine fresh
    She made her garlanding,
And every night the dark glen Yew
    She wove, and she would sing.

And with her fingers old and brown
    She plaited Mats o' Rushes,
And gave them to the Cottagers
    She met among the Bushes.

Old Meg was brave as Margaret Queen
    And tall as Amazon:
An old red blanket cloak she wore;
    A chip hat had she on.
God rest her aged bones somewhere--
    She died full long agone!

Overnight, very
Whitely, discreetly,
Very quietly

Our toes, our noses
Take hold on the loam,
Acquire the air.

Nobody sees us,
Stops us, betrays us;
The small grains make room.

Soft fists insist on
Heaving the needles,
The leafy bedding,

Even the paving.
Our hammers, our rams,
Earless and eyeless,

Perfectly voiceless,
Widen the crannies,
Shoulder through holes. We

Diet on water,
On crumbs of shadow,
Bland-mannered, asking

Little or nothing.
So many of us!
So many of us!

We are shelves, we are
Tables, we are meek,
We are edible,

Nudgers and shovers
In spite of ourselves.
Our kind multiplies:

We shall by morning
Inherit the earth.
Our foot's in the door.