Okay, I confess. Ninety percent of the poems I choose are based on how I am feeling about things.
- Throughout the echoing chambers of my brain
- I hear your words in mournful cadence toll
- Like some slow passing-bell which warns the soul
- Of sundering darkness. Unrelenting, fain
- To batter down resistance, fall again
- Stroke after stroke, insistent diastole,
- The bitter blows of truth, until the whole
- Is hammered into fact made strangely plain.
- Where shall I look for comfort? Not to you.
- Our worlds are drawn apart, our spirit's suns
- Divided, and the light of mine burnt dim.
- Now in the haunted twilight I must do
- Your will. I grasp the cup which over-runs,
- And with my trembling lips I touch the rim.