SONNET FOR NEWSPAPERMEN by THOMAS DEL VECCHIO

These lies are not my life, which is ill-met;
Who feeds corruption by that poison dies:
A high-flung course all beauty, truth, descries,
And no brave wings have anchorage in this sweat.
What stunning topsy-turvy feeds this fret
Of need devouring substance from my eyes?
Who fight and die are infinitely wise,
Beyond this pall where our grim sun is set.

To die, or not to know, is saner good;
But glimpsing truth, and never to pursue,
To see her beckoning in a dazzling view,
And never to possess her lips for food --
Is how we live and how at "thirty" know
Few men have suffered thus, or died just so.

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