Who dares to say life is a futile thing Because no hungry arm has crushed your form, No lips have brushed your lips! Can you not sing The elemental violence of storm -- Wild rain and rushing wind? Is there no pure Delight in beauty bodied in a cloud, An elm in April, or the shrilly sure Staccato of a bird that's thickly boughed? There is no kiss like that of wind at dawn, Of spray back-flung from a presumptuous prow. Nor do they stifle with the cruel spawn Of disillusion -- facing Then with Now. Not every brow was meant to wear Love's crown. Perhaps its weight of dross would bear you down. |