Charles Fisher

1914 - 2006 / Swansea

No Lamp So Bright

No lamp so bright
As this whose fist of light
Beats on my table

See, in this syllable
‘Omega', the crust, the plaited
Muscle of rhyme dsicarded
For sleep at last; these pages
With their clear images
Labyrinth and thread
Of words twitched by the dead
Whose songs I hear, and shall,
But may not equal,

Bright replica and house
Of the wide universe
And the sun's good;
Sigh, that too well describes
Our birth, our mood
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