DEAR Angel, what is this you say, Because I'm on my books intent? 'You're writing; I am in your way!' Ah! why such cruel jest invent? Tell me, who ever saw the dew In drouthy heat at eventide Excuse itself because anew It freshens meads by summer dried? Or did one ever see the star Ask pardon of the gloomy night, Or that sweet roses hidden are To bring the thistle into sight? Oh, if you knew how verse or prose I deem not worthy to compare With your soft finger tipt with rose, Or with one ringlet of your hair: How little worth to spend one's life To seem more capable and grand, Before the crowd with envy rife, Without the mind to understand: How worthless phrases to unite, On sound and turns to waste your powers, That they may treat the Muse's flight As herb collectors do the flowers: How worthless, gloomy-souled, and dark, To give time, strength, and all you can, Glory to gain--that empty bark, And immortality--a span. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...IN THE RANGITAKI VALLEY by KATHERINE MANSFIELD CONTRA MORTEM: THE MOON by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE WAY OF THE CONVENTICLE OF THE TREES by HAYDEN CARRUTH BRIGHTNESS AS A POIGNANT LIGHT by DAVID IGNATOW MEMOIR OF A PROUD BOY by CARL SANDBURG |