Most near, most dear, most loved, and most far,
Under the huge window where I often found her
Sitting as huge as Asia, seismic with laughter,
Gin and chicken helpless in her Irish hand,
Irresistible as Rabelais but most tender for
The lame dogs and hurt birds that surround her,—
She is a procession no one can follow after
But be like a little dog following a brass band.
She will not glance up at the bomber or condescend
To drop her gin and scuttle to a cellar,
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
When thou shalt be disposed to set me light,
And place my merit in the eye of scorn,
Upon thy side against myself I'll fight,
And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn.
With mine own weakness being best acquainted,
Upon thy part I can set down a story
Of faults conceal'd, wherein I am attainted,
That thou in losing me shalt win much glory:
And I by this will be a gainer too;
For bending all my loving thoughts on thee,
LOng-while I sought to what I might compare
those powrefull eies, which lighte my dark spright,
yet find I nought on earth to which I dare
resemble th'ymage of their goodly light.
Not to the Sun: for they doo shine by night;
nor to the Moone: for they are changed neuer;
nor to the Starres: for they haue purer sight;
nor to the fire: for they consume not euer;
Nor to the lightning: for they still persuer;
nor to the Diamond: for they are more tender;
Indeed this very love which is my boast,
And which, when rising up from breast to brow,
Doth crown me with a ruby large enow
To draw men's eyes and prove the inner cost,—
This love even, all my worth, to the uttermost,
I should not love withal, unless that thou
Hadst set me an example, shown me how,
When first thine earnest eyes with mine were crossed,
If you can ignore your true culture,
Then you are mentally ill.
If you are lacking true superstructure,
Better then you take suicide pill.
Never use your dream infrastructure,
Not every blank you must fill.
Backbone no longer agriculture,
For corruption pays all the bill.
In the blaze of the buttercup morning,
Bluejays were reeling in rich lapis skies,
And for miles lush nature was adorning,
In the golden age of hued butterflies!
Yellow and lovely were the flower fields,
Reaching forever at bright edge of day,
Yet long before dawn was destiny sealed,
With the promise of the endless bouquet.
I was cooped inside all the afternoon,
Missing tree and bush and garden madness;
But from my window I saw abstract blooms,
In rain's watercolors, nature's canvas!
They brightened the day, in absence of sun,
While the storm distorted without mercy,
Views of bold colors, from the lush season,
As the frantic blooms made many a curtsey.
Dusty rose and orange gold when daybreaks;
And burnished reds and mauve at setting sun.
The mountains in shades of beauty awakes;
And retires to the same when day is done.
The mountains are massed in riotous blooms,
While sometimes obscured by lemony clouds,
As heady scents drift all the afternoons,
And into nights, appearing in dark shrouds.
Life's golden hours take one through so many,
Our footsteps echoing through time's hallways.
Peach dawn through sunset, legs running plenty,
Like brilliant seasons searching for always!
In and out of each other's lives we turn,
Touched with puzzlement by each mystery,
And with our heart's passions slowly we burn,
'Til glowing sunset years' tinged memory!