HERE is fresh matter, poet,
Matter for old age meet;
Might of the Church and the State,
Their mobs put under their feet.
O but heart's wine shall run pure,
Mind's bread grow sweet.
That were a cowardly song,
Wander in dreams no more;
What if the Church and the State
Are the mob that howls at the door!
Wine shall run thick to the end,
Bread taste sour.

I wish I could stay sober but you are an open bottle
and my lips crave your skin.

I like you.
Or at least I like who I am when I'm with you.
When I look into your eyes,
I'm on a different planet.
I've always liked you...
Even before everyone else did.
I still do...
And I don't know if its worse if you know,
Or worse if you don't.

Weary and weak,--accept my weariness;
  Weary and weak and downcast in my soul,
With hope growing less and less,
  And with the goal
Distant and dim,--accept my sore distress.
I thought to reach the goal so long ago,
  At outset of the race I dreamed of rest,
Not knowing what now I know
  Of breathless haste,
  Of long-drawn straining effort across the waste.

One only thing I knew, Thy love of me;
  One only thing I know, Thy sacred same
Love of me full and free,
  A craving flame
Of selfless love of me which burns in Thee.
How can I think of thee, and yet grow chill;
  Of Thee, and yet grow cold and nigh to death?
Re-energize my will,
  Rebuild my faith;
  I will arise and run, Thou giving me breath.

I will arise, repenting and in pain;
  I will arise, and smite upon my breast
And turn to Thee again;
  Thou choosest best,
Lead me along the road Thou makest plain.
Lead me a little way, and carry me
  A little way, and listen to my sighs,
And store my tears with Thee,
  And deign replies
  To feeble prayers;--O Lord, I will arise.