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A POET WITHOUT LOVE
Private Notes
Private Notes
Notes
Geniues fails to find the words I
Wish for. Slow the tongue to form my
Plainest sentiments; the Muse is
Shriveled; silent are the voices
Gushing with my music. Rather,
I hear branches bare that clatter
From the wind in winter's night: they
Clash with cruelest cracking; day may
Never friend the darkened bones of
Song. A poet without love. If
Love lacks food, how can it live? And
If the song lack love, what then? End
Of it all, perhaps, unless it
Turns to howling in the gloom, lit
Only by the hope within the
Moon. But I have my manna.
Holy fire lends me sleep, when
Such a chill attempts to frighten
Me at night; the words inhuman
Soothe my searchless mind. A woman
Sings a wordless song, and lovely
Are the hands that spoke so softly.
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