ON POETRY ... Thomas Carlyle

"In ancient and in modern times we find a few Poets who are accounted perfect; whom it were a kind of treason to find fault with. This is noteworthy, this is right: yet in strictness it is only an illusion. At bottom, clearly enough, there is no perfect Poet! A vein of poetry exists in the hearts of all men; no man is made altogether of Poetry. We are all poets when we read a poem well."

	A LEISURED LOVE Winter stays among the snowdrops, Was it you I noticed there? Passing by above the hedgetops I stooped down and found your lair. I must admit your season suits you But your hideout hems you in. After all, if I'm to woo you, You vanquish first before I win. I have no fear that we're not fitted; Winter melts at Spring's advance. We'll be seasonally suited To the sway of choosy chance.
		A PLEA FOR FAITH? Print words of faith into my heart; Brand me with irons of proof; Dispel the doubts that have held me So long from thee aloof. I need the truth, I can't say why - I won't let you desert. I want to find those inner wounds, I need to feel your hurt. My outer self accepts you whole, And shields you from assaults. Effectively, I water down And camouflage your faults. Believe me when I say I try, But that will not suffice. A great despair dispels the light And the devil's fiends entice. But when the doubts arise inside I can't dispel the gloom, Because I know I'm losing you and hurtling to my doom. The devil prompts and makes me ask That central question "Why? Do I really believe in God above, Below or in the sky?" Then I reflect and need to know If all my past is sham. Why do so many still believe He was the Son of Man? Print words of faith into my heart; Brand me with irons of proof; Dispel the doubts that have held me So long from thee aloof.
	On Remembering I saw her briefly in a week of ease And tender, lonely looks of longing. Of unfulfilled despairing hurt Of happy, hopeful love. Leaving with promise of reunion And pledges of a life-long trust. Memory lasts but not the present. History gives the lie to love. * * * And now the past pains the present again Those vivid re-lived passages smart So I try to disengage my memory And the sorrowing sobs do not reach my heart. But the regret will end, it always does. Nothing retains its sting so long That memory can't in time evade. And what is left ... is bitter, bitter circumstance.

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