The Thieves of Night
The thieves of night have stolen sleep
and I abetted them;
the moon is high, my heart is hot,
the world is evendim,
I wonder if you walk somewhere
beneath a sickle slim
of moon that hunts the wayward stars.
Unslept, I wonder where you are.
With ink of night I write a verse
but understand it not;
my heart unknowing lyrics writes
with subtle pen of thought;
but at the end oblivion
will come and take the lot:
my thoughts are stolen with my sleep --
save wondering what paths you keep.
The night itself is stolen, too,
in cunning con and heist:
the bait is laid, the trap is set,
the prey thereby enticed,
the spring is sprung, the teeth close down
with ruthlessness of vise;
impressive, but my mind still strays
to wonder if you'll chance my way.
A Poet Is No Dancing Horse
A poet is no dancing horse;
I cannot prance on your command,
nor steeplechase across a course
with shouting thousands in the stands.
To bet on me is like to lose --
I keep no beaten track --
my frenzies are not mine to choose,
my reins are always slack.
And if perhaps you are confused,
I'll summarize with force:
you are not God, nor yet my Muse,
nor I your dancing horse!
But do not think I speak with gall.
Such trees are fallen where they fall.
A poem does not come at call,
but as the God has set.
An angel, by some unknown fate,
will stir the waters by the gate,
and if you will with patience wait,
you may get a poem yet.