Despair
When I seek your charms to name,
I must despair, for words the same
poets skilled and hack have used
to sing through phases of the Muse
songs that did more justice then,
before they had been sung again.
I praise your eyes, but limpid pools
boys were taught in books at school;
I praise your hair, so silken fine;
every thought seems stolen line.
I hymn your lips; their cupid-bow
framed in words the bar-girls know,
my hope of lightly touching kiss
pre-known by every star-eyed miss.
It is unfair, and I could weep
tears long told through eons deep;
must I make a language new
to speak as speech should speak of you?
Worryless
The kite is dancing with the wind
arm in arm, as friend to friend;
worries gently drift away.
The blue of stream by drying grass,
swaying like a pleasant lass,
rejoices in the day.
The trees upraise their crooked arms
their leaves a-shimmer like a charm
that flashes in the light.
Beneath the bough that sways above,
the birds a-chatter, full of love,
the road goes straight and right.
