Poet

What shall I say of the seasons of the moon
for a poet in his blues is a man of grief
and what greater sorrow should a man must see
than to hold in his arms his youth slain dead

What shall I write of the seasons of the moon
for to tell you once of the twinge of art
is to rob you twice of the passion to know

and what greater misery to a poet be brought
forget to bleed than to make his heart
deprived of tears if his eyes be must
what shall he say of the coming of ghust
and of the going of winter, what should he know

But, when his heart does finally bleed
and wet his eyes with what it must
then winter kneels down herself
to beg the arrival of spring again

and still do some with surety claim
that a poet does live in an idle's hutch
but when she brings to life a child
Pray, don't say of a mother as such