the old ways are the powerless
they can and will do nothing
they are impotent... and dying
the new ways are the living...
and ever the changing...
they are life

405

It might be lonelier
Without the Loneliness—
I’m so accustomed to my Fate—
Perhaps the Other—Peace—

Would interrupt the Dark—
And crowd the little Room—
Too scant—by Cubits—to contain
The Sacrament—of Him—

I am not used to Hope—
It might intrude upon—
Its sweet parade—blaspheme the place—
Ordained to Suffering—

It might be easier
To fail—with Land in Sight—
Than gain—My Blue Peninsula—
To perish—of Delight—

A mermaid found a swimming lad,
Picked him for her own,
Pressed her body to his body,
Laughed; and plunging down
Forgot in cruel happiness
That even lovers drown.

believing,
it seems to me,
is the root of all knowing,
for what i have found
is worth far more than all i have lost.
what i once took for granted,
i now embrace each day,
like a breath of frigid air
on a morning laced with ice.
you magnetize me into
delight so deep and dark.
you are swirling, yes,
with all the light of things unknown.
all of you, which i have pulled
from dreaming
to become the reality beneath
the heavy lids that open to wonder,
enchantment; surely you know,
for your spell is natural
as the garden which flourishes
in your heart, planting sunlight
and bittersweet promises,
too much for a wanderer to behold.
yet he stops and stares,
as do i, for the day breaks
as surely as you will.
far more than this: soften
your edge to fit with mine.

The stinging nettle only
Will still be found to stand:
The numberless, the lonely,
The thronger of the land,
The leaf that hurts the hand.

That thrives, come sun, come showers;
Blow east, blow west, it springs;
It peoples towns, and towers
Above the courts of Kings,
And touch it and it stings.

I never may turn the loop of a road
  Where sudden, ahead, the sea is lying,
But my heart drags down with an ancient load--
  My heart, that a second before was flying.

I never behold the quivering rain--
  And sweeter the rain than a lover to me--
But my heart is wild in my breast with pain;
  My heart, that was tapping contentedly.

There's never a rose spreads new at my door
  Nor a strange bird crosses the moon at night
But I know I have known its beauty before,
  And a terrible sorrow along with the sight.

The look of a laurel tree birthed for May
  Or a sycamore bared for a new November
Is as old and as sad as my furtherest day--
  What is it, what is it, I almost remember?