I know, but I do not approve. And I am not resigned.
I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
She is happy where she lies With the dust upon her eyes.
You see, I am a poet, and not quite right in the head, darling. It’s only that.
Lord, I do fear Thou'st made the world too beautiful this year My soul is all but out of me-let fall No burning leaf; prithee, let no bird call.
Upon this gifted age, in its dark hour falls from the sky a meteoric shower of facts; They lie unquestioned, uncombined. Wisdom enough to leech us of our ill is daily spun, But there exists no loom to weave it into fabric.