alike are
love and
the rose

if
neglected,
farewell
to
both

Threefold is a man's foolishness
When he denies true love's existence.

Whence cometh my mediocrity?
Shameful is my life.
In verse I so long
To pen my thoughts
On love, nature,
On life’s fragility.
Yet from my heart and mind
Exudeth naught.
Voiceless, museless
Dare I deem myself a poet?
If I am not to write
Then wherefore do I exist?
Just as the captain without bark
Is but a soul bedeviled and lost,
So too is the author without voice
Ne’er to be an author at all.
Though, oft I wonder
Perhaps, senescent are my woes,
And there is many a song
Have I yet to compose.
Only in due course
This will I e’er know.
O till that time is upon me
Ne’er will I cease to ponder
Whence cometh my mediocrity?
Only in due course
This will I e’er know.

beauty is the night----
the solace majestic that warrants
the weary eye----
the muse ethereal to whom is beholden
the creative mind.----
yonder the elden oak
'twixt darkness and moonlight;
the wolves whose cries resound
beneath the ebon skies;
the fauna savage that prowls
with prey in sight.
anon, a gentle rain dawneth
and giveth life unto the earth.
anew, the aqueous offerings!
o how nightly wonders
are but the eidolon of beauty,
the paragon of grandeur.
‘tis oft i roam
the terrain so dark and calm
of jovial mien, allur’d
by the starry plane above.
and think most profoundly
on the coming morrow
when departs dian
upon the arrival of apollo.
thereat awakening the many a soul
of their repose,
and the day’s concomitant joys and woes.
bathing the land in a burnished glow.
tho’ in study will be i
‘mid texts of prose and rhyme.
and with wont eye
mark the passage of time,
till cometh once more
the beauteous night.

When in ken of amorous forthcoming,
And witness bears the heart
To love’s fair presence, doth life
Seem to grow of woes surcease,
And restoréd is joy whither
Joy was once spent.

But if subject to the throes of misfortune,
And love remains afar and elusive,
How the breadth of ire, of scorn, of envy
Befall the erstwhile ardent *****.

So oft I think on future’s givings,
So oft I ponder these undying questions—
Will I come to embrace my king or queen?
Or suffer e’ermore by Cupid’s absence?

The answers, I suppose, Time will bring,
And perhaps, I will find happiness forgotten.
Though, for now here I sit and hark the dove sing
And these verses write that my mood betoken.

O Dreams interred of erstwhile youth
Befallen by th' ills of time's passage.
I, ere a soul of bountiful mirth,
Am now but confined to a crestfallen existence.
And tho' memories remain of ****** Earth
Once I deemed my environs.
Gone now 's the unspoiled nature
And th' merriment of juvenile innocence.
Yet, with each dawn's ascent,
Whether the heavens are marked by ashen or azure,
What remains of felicity 's not spent.
So long as I have thee, my sweet beloved,
Til life's ineluctable end.

I am but one ash of many,
Remnant of a by-gone fire
Quelled by wind.
I am but of body liquescent,
Mid the showers that brings the mighty tempest.
I am but a leaf of divers,
Anon to fall from agéd branch
As Autumn arrives, and the erst warmth retires.
I am but of common nature,
Who has not the beauty nor uniquity
Of Summer’s flowers,
Nor bids the eye inquisitive
Of the wanderer.
Lo! By dint of Winter’s dawn
Alas, I am to wither.
Supplanted by life anew
And forgotten thereafter.