Today I return to the American Poets Laureate and to Billy Collins (1941 -) who was the eleventh.

Quotation "As I'm writing, I'm always reader conscious. I have one reader in mind, someone who is in the room with me, and who I'm talking to, and I want to make sure I don't talk too fast, or too glibly. Usually I try to create a hospitable tone at the beginning of a poem. Stepping from the title to the first lines is like stepping into a canoe. A lot of things can go wrong."

FORGETFULNESS

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

Billy Collins

Elizabeth Jennings was born in 1926 in Boston, Lincolnshire where her father was a respected Chief Medical Officer. The family moved to Oxford when she was six years old and she discovered poetry while attending Oxford High School.

Throughout the 1960's, Elizabeth was one of the most popular poets in England. She never married and published a great number of works. Elizabeth once said, "I write fast and revise very little".

ONE FLESH

Lying apart now, each in a separate bed,
He with a book, keeping the light on late,
She like a girl dreaming of childhood,
All men elsewhere - it is as if they wait
Some new event: the book he holds unread,
Her eyes fixed on the shadows overhead.

Tossed up like flotsam from a former passion,
How cool they lie. They hardly ever touch,
Or if they do, it is like a confession
Of having little feeling - or too much.
Chastity faces them, a destination
For which their whole lives were a preparation.

Strangely apart, yet strangely close together,
Silence between them like a thread to hold
And not wind in. And time itself's a feather
Touching them gently. Do they know they're old,
These two who are my father and my mother
Whose fire from which I came, has now grown cold?

Elizabeth Jennings (1926 - 2001)

Here is another poem by the Canadian writer, Aurora Antonovic.

I believe this one was written in English and not translated from the French.

An unplanned touch, a spark ignites!
And starts a flame that blazes bright,
Hot as a candle, searing strong,
Burns intensity’s scalding song.

But passion’s moment hesitates,
And halts in indecision – waits --
Faltering from the fanning glow,
The zealous, sparking, flame turns low…

A hint, a waver, of the light,
Then passion takes its leave by flight;
Thus borne upon the wings of doubt,
The candle flickers, then goes out.

Aurora Antonovic.

Today, a poem in French by the contemporary Canadian writer, Aurora Antonovic.

The excellent English translation is not by me. It may well be by the poet herself.

Poètes Amoureux

l'aube vermeil est le seul témoin
au ballet ordinaire du tapement
assoupi des claviers double dans une
harmonie parfaite,
le frolement des pages tournées,
l'éraflure insonore de la plume inspirante
sur le papier crémeux

l'horloge du vestibule sonne l'heure de midi :
le thé embaume au citron, le miel de fleur,
et la fraise couvrant les tranches grille attendent,
pas un morceau est goûté, quand
sans dire un mot, le chemin usé en haut
à la salle trempée par le soleil est prise
où l'après-midi se passe en chuchotant le travail du matin
les uns contre les autres cou

Poets in Love

Dawn’s first blush
alone is witness
to the familiar ballet
of hushed tap tapping of dual keyboards
in perfect harmony,
the undertone of turned pages,
the muffled scratching of
inspiration’s pen on creamy paper

The ringing of the hallway clock
signifies the noon hour:
lemon-balmed tea,
flower-infused honey,
and strawberry slathered scones await
but hardly a morsel is tasted before,
wordlessly, the worn path upstairs
to the sun drenched room is taken
where afternoon is spent
whispering morning’s work
against each other’s neck

Aurora Antonovic

P.S. To those of you who looked at yesterday's poem early in the day, please re-visit it. I have made changes in the English translation and divided it into verses. I think it is an improvement.

UNO Y UNO MISMO

Cuando uno se comienza a parecer a uno mismo, es cuando más necesario es armarse de pericia

huir del alter ego y reapropiarse del alma y del cuerpo . . .

That is the beginning of a poem, in Spanish, that recently won an award in a Latino poetry competition.

The English translation I found did not do it justice. It was too literal and I have adapted it a little to make it more poetic.

Here it is:

TIME TO CHANGE

When you seem to be
Just like your ordinary self,
Use your imagination!
Let the wild horses have their head,
Become a bare-back rider
Reclaim your soul
And gallop free.

When you seem to be
Just like your ordinary self,
And the mirror reflects only memories,
Then bundle up the past and, with relief,
Cast it deep into the waters,
To carry its weight down river
Far away.

The present must be taken out and aired.
The future, not yet concerned about itself,
Anchors the past, controls the present.
Sort out the leaves of NOW
According to their colour.
Grasp them firmly and run with them
Until, like kites, they pierce the skies.

When you seem to be
Just like your ordinary self,
You are really only seeing remnants that are left.
Like a cypress in the park, sculpted, trimmed every Tuesday.
So make the change and then,
One day, you may wake up a dolphin, or an ant
Perhaps a Jacaranda flower or sturdy oak.

When you seem to be
Just like your ordinary self
You may already be defeated.
And the only choice becomes
Whether to remain the same.
Or to be reborn
And live again.

(G. Santiago Sandi-Urena)

Here is the last Silverstein song that I shall be posting here for a while. I realise that to some he is an acquired taste!

I CAN'T TOUCH THE SUN

I can't touch the clouds for you I never reached the sun for you
I never done the things that you need done for you
I stretched as high as I can reach I guess I'm not the one for you
Cause I can't touch the clouds or reach the sun for you
No I can't touch the clouds or reach the sun
I can't turn back time for you and make you sweet sixteen again
I can't turn your barren fields to green again
And I can't sit around and talk bout what might have been again
I can't turn back time and make you young again
No I can't turn back time and make you young
I can't crawl inside your head and see the things that you're hopin' for
I can't help you chase the dream that you're gropin' for
I know your heart is open wide but I don't know who it's open for
I can't know your mind or chase your dreams with you
No I can't chase your dreams or know your mind
[ guitar ]
So say goodbye and don't look back I've had some happy days with you
I'm sorry but I can't be the one who stays with you
And if they ask about me you can say I was the one with you
Who never touched the clouds or reached the sun with you
No I can't touch the clouds or reach the sun with you
No I can't touch the clouds or reach the sun

Shel Silverstein

The following song was recorded in 1972 by "Dr. Hook and The Medicine Man".

Don't read it if you are easily offended.

GET MY ROCKS OFF

Some men need some killer weed
and some men need cocaine.
Some men need some cactus juice
to purify their brain.
Some man need 2 women,
and some need alcohol.
Everybody needs a little something
but, Lord, I need it all...
To get my rocks off, get my rocks off,
get my rocks off the mountain...
and roll 'em down the hill.
I may do you one time
and I may do you more
And I may turn you into somethin'
you ain't ready for.
I might want your body
or I might want your bread
Or I might want your Momma
to come visit me instead...
To get my rocks off, get my rocks off,
get my rocks off the mountain...
and roll 'em down the hill.
Sometimes I dream of chicks
to bring me everlasting joys.
Sometimes I dream of animals,
sometimes I dream of boys.
Sometimes I kill the living,
sometimes I raise the dead.
Sometimes I just say screw it all
and jump back into bed...
And get my rocks off...
To get my rocks off, get my rocks off,
get my rocks off the mountain...
and roll 'em down the hill.

Shel Silverstein

Yes, Mr. Rodgers, I'm livin in sin with your daughter.
No, Mr. Rodgers, we don't have separate rooms.
Mr. Rodgers, I guess you could use one more scotch and water.
Gee, Mr. Rodgers, do you have to be leavin' so soon?

No, Mr. Rodgers, I ain't found work but I'm lookin'.
I'm sure, Mr. Rodgers, you must have heard times are tight.
Yes, Mr. Rodgers, she works and I do the cookin'.
No, Mr. Rodgers, I won't step outside an' fight.

And I hope that Mrs. Rodgers' cold gets better.
Maybe she could phone sometime or write her daughter a letter.
No, Mr. Rodgers, but thanks a lot for the offer.
If she wanted a ring, I think I could buy one myself.
But you see that she's pleased with the plain string of beads I got her,
So, you see Mr. Rodgers, your daughter ain't goin' to hell.
And I hope that Mrs. Rodgers' cold gets better.
Maybe she could phone sometime or maybe write her daughter a letter.

Yeah, Mr. Rodgers, I'm a-livin in sin with your daughter.
No, Mr. Rodgers, we don't have separate rooms.
Mr. Rodgers, I guess you could use one more scotch and water.
Gee, Mr. Rodgers, do you have to be leavin so soon?
Hey, Mr. Rodgers, do you have to be leavin so soon?

Shel Siverstein

Today another poem by the new American Poet Laureate, Donald Hall.

THE MAN IN THE DEAD MACHINE

High on a slope in New Guinea
The Grumman Hellcat
lodges among bright vines
as thick as arms. In 1943,
the clenched hand of a pilot
glided it here
where no one has ever been.

In the cockpit, the helmeted
skeleton sits
upright, held
by dry sinews at neck
and shoulder, and webbing
that straps the pelvic cross
to the cracked
leather of the seat, and the breastbone
to the canvas cover
of the parachute.

Or say the shrapnel
missed him, he flew
back to the carrier, and every
morning takes the train, his pale
hands on the black case, and sits
upright, held
by the firm webbing.

Donald Hall

Thanks Bill for drawing my attention to Shel Silverstein.

Both Marianne Faithful and Belinda Carlisle recorded versions of this song.

The morning sun touched lightly on
The eyes of Lucy Jordan
In her white suburban bedroom
In a white suburban town,
As she lay there 'neath the covers,
Dreaming of a thousand lovers,
Till the world turned to orange
And the room went spinning 'round.

At the age of 37
She realized she'd never ride
Through Paris in a sports car
With the warm wind in her hair.
So she let the phone keep ringing
As she sat there, softly singing
Little nursery rhymes she'd memorized
In her daddy's easy chair.

Her husband is off to work,
And the kids are off to school,
And there were, oh, so many ways
For her to spend the day:
She could clean the house for hours
Or rearrange the flowers
Or run naked through the shady streets,
Screaming all the way!

At the age of 37
She realized she'd never ride
Through Paris in a sports car
With the warm wind in her hair.
So she let the phone keep ringing
As she sat there, softly singing
Little nursery rhymes she'd memorized
In her daddy's easy chair.

The evening sun touched gently on
The eyes of Lucy Jordan
On the roof top, where she climbed
When all the laughter grew too loud.
And she bowed and curtsied to the man
Who reached and offered her his hand,
And he led her down to the long white car
That waited past the crowd.

At the age of 37
She knew she'd found forever,
As she rolled along through Paris
With the warm wind in her hair . . .

Shel Siverstein

In this country the post of Poet Laureate is a royal appointment and the incumbent serves for life.

So, here today is the first of those poems:

NAME OF HORSES

All winter your brute shoulders strained against collars, padding
and steerhide over the ash hames, to haul
sledges of cordwood for drying through spring and summer,
for the Glenwood stove next winter, and for the simmering range.

In April you pulled cartloads of manure to spread on the fields,
dark manure of Holsteins, and knobs of your own clustered with oats.
All summer you mowed the grass in meadow and hayfield, the mowing machine
clacketing beside you, while the sun walked high in the morning;

and after noon's heat, you pulled a clawed rake through the same acres,
gathering stacks, and dragged the wagon from stack to stack,
and the built hayrack back, uphill to the chaffy barn,
three loads of hay a day from standing grass in the morning.

Sundays you trotted the two miles to church with the light load
a leather quartertop buggy, and grazed in the sound of hymns.
Generation on generation, your neck rubbed the windowsill
of the stall, smoothing the wood as the sea smooths glass.

When you were old and lame, when your shoulders hurt bending to graze,
one October the man, who fed you and kept you, and harnessed you every morning,
led you through corn stubble to sandy ground above Eagle Pond,
and dug a hole beside you where you stood shuddering in your skin,

and lay the shotgun's muzzle in the boneless hollow behind your ear,
and fired the slug into your brain, and felled you into your grave,
shoveling sand to cover you, setting goldenrod upright above you,
where by next summer a dent in the ground made your monument.

For a hundred and fifty years, in the Pasture of dead horses,
roots of pine trees pushed through the pale curves of your ribs,
yellow blossoms flourished above you in autumn, and in winter
frost heaved your bones in the ground - old toilers, soil makers:

O Roger, Mackerel, Riley, Ned, Nellie, Chester, Lady Ghost.

Donald Hall

After a pleasant night's sleep, with several interesting dreams, I thought today I would bring you some of Shakespeare's comments on the subject.

Some will be well-known to you, but others are perhaps less familiar.

We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

("The Tempest")

Enjoy the honey-heavy dew of slumber:
Thou hast no figures nor no fantasies
Which busy care draws in the brains of men;
Therefore thou sleep’st so sound.

("Julius Cæsar")

What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?
Young son, it argues a distemper’d head
So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed:
Care keeps his watch in every old man’s eye,
And where care lodges, sleep will never lie;
But where unbruised youth with unstuff’d brain
Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign:

("Romeo and Juliet")

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head
To work my mind, when body’s work’s expir’d:
For then my thoughts—from far where I abide—
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see:
Save that my soul’s imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous and her old face new.
Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee, and for myself no quiet find.

("Sonnet 27")

Methought I heard a voice cry ‘Sleep no more!
Macbeth does murder sleep,’ the innocent sleep,
Sleep that knits up the ravell’d sleave of care,
The death of each day’s life, sore labour’s bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature’s second course,
Chief nourisher in life’s feast.

("Macbeth")

O sleep! O gentle sleep!
Nature’s soft nurse, how have I frighted thee,
That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down
And steep my senses in forgetfulness?
Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs,
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee,
And hush’d with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber,
Than in the perfum’d chambers of the great,
Under the canopies of costly state,
And lull’d with sound of sweetest melody?

("2 Henry IV")

Be not afeard: the isle is full of noises,
Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears; and sometime voices,
That, if I then had wak’d after long sleep,
Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming,
The clouds methought would open and show riches
Ready to drop upon me; that, when I wak’d
I cried to dream again.

("The Tempest")

To sleep? Perchance to dream!
Ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.

("Hamlet")

Last week I included here a poem by the American poet, Charles Bukowski, about writing - which stated "if it doesn't come bursting out of you in spite of everything,don't do it."

How much easier it is to copy and paste someone else's work to a blog like this! But not so satisfying.

POETRY FOR SUPPER

'Listen, now, verse should be as natural
As the small tuber that feeds on muck
And grows slowly from obtuse soil
To the white flower of immortal beauty.'

'Natural, hell! What was it Chaucer
Said once about the long toil
That goes like blood to the poem's making?
Leave it to nature and the verse sprawls,
Limp as bindweed, if it break at all
Life's iron crust. Man, you must sweat
And rhyme your guts taut, if you'd build
Your verse a ladder.'
'You speak as though
No sunlight ever surprised the mind
Groping on its cloudy path.'

'Sunlight's a thing that needs a window
Before it enter a dark room.
Windows don't happen.'
So two old poets,
Hunched at their beer in the low haze
Of an inn parlour, while the talk ran
Noisily by them, glib with prose.

R.S. Thomas

The nearest dream recedes, unrealized.
The heaven we chase
Like the June bee
Before the school-boy
Invites the race;
Stoops to an easy clover
Dips--evades--teases--deploys;
Then to the royal clouds
Lifts his light pinnace
Heedless of the boy
Staring, bewildered, at the mocking sky.

Homesick for steadfast honey,
Ah! the bee flies not
That brews that rare variety.

Emily Dickinson

My attempt at translating French poetry into English has led me across the border to Umberto Saba (1883-1957), who is considered to be one of the greatest modern Italian poets.

I find the poem rather gloomy, but it appeals to some!

TO MY SOUL

You delight in your unending misery.
Such, my soul, should be the worth of knowledge,
that your suffering alone should do you good.

Or is the self-deceived the lucky one?
He who cannot ever know himself
or the sentence of his condemnation?

Still, my soul, you are magnaminous;
yet how you thrill to phantom opportunities,
and so are brought down by a faithless kiss.

To me my misery is a bright summer
day, where from high up I can make out
every facet, every detail of the world below.

Nothing is obscure to me; it's all right there,
wherever my eye or my mind leads me.
My road is sad but brightened by the sun;

and everything on it, even shadow, is in light.

Umberto Saba

As promised yesterday, here is The Pogues' version of "Under The Mirabeau Bridge".

I would very much like to hear their recording, which is on their album 'Pogue Mahone'.

PONT MIRABEAU

Below the Pont Mirabeau
Slow flows the Seine
And all our loves together
Must I recall again
Joy would always follow
After pain

Let night fall, let the hours go by
The days pass on and here stand I

Hands holding hands
Let us stand face to face
While underneath the bridge
Of our arms entwined slow race
Eternal gazes flowing
At wave's pace

Let night fall, let the hours go by
The days pass on and here stand I

Love runs away
Like running water flows
Love flows away
But oh how slow life goes
How violent is hope
Love only knows

Let night fall, let the hours go by
The days pass on and here stand I

The days flow ever on
The weeks pass by in vain
Time never will return
Nor our loves burn again
Below the Pont Mirabeau
Slow flows the Seine

Let night fall, let the hours go by
The days pass on and here stand I

BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE:

In the later incarnations of the band, after the departure of Shane MacGowan, rock instruments such as the electric guitar would become more prominent. The first of The Pogues' albums, Red Roses for Me borrows much from the punk tradition of MacGowan's previous band The Nipple Erectors (later dubbed The Nips).

Today something different - a poem in French by Guillaume Apollinaire (1880 - 1918)

LE PONT MIRABEAU

Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine
Et nos amours
Faut-il qu'il m'en souvienne
La joie venait toujours après la peine
Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure

Les mains dans les mains restons face à face
Tandis que sous
Le pont de nos bras passe
Des éternels regards l'onde si lasse

Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure

L'amour s'en va comme cette eau courante
L'amour s'en va
Comme la vie est lente
Et comme l'Espérance est violente

Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure

Passent les jours et passent les semaines
Ni temps passé
Ni les amours reviennent
Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine

Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure
Les jours s'en vont je demeure

And here is my own English translation.

It is not entirely literal and I have taken a few liberties, but I think it keeps to the spirit of the original.

The Seine flows under the Mirabeau bridge
So too does our love.
I shall always remember it this way,
The joy that often follows pain.

Let the night fall, the hours ring out
The days are passing
But in our memories
We shall remain forever here.

Holding hands, your face next mine
Beneath this bridge of our enfolded arms
The lingering waves of loving glances
Will become eternal.

Let the night fall, the hours ring out
The days are passing
But in our memories
We shall remain forever here.

Love flows on
Like the waters of this gentle river
Love flows on
How slow life is
And how upsetting hope can be.

Let the night fall, the hours ring out
The days are passing
But in our memories
We shall remain forever here.

The days and weeks go by
Neither time that has gone
Nor past love
Can ever be recaptured -
Except here, where the Seine flows sweetly
Under the Mirabeau bridge.

Tomorrow I shall post another English version that follows the original very closely.

More about them tomorrow - and the origin of their name.

if it doesn't come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don't do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don't do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don't do it.
if you're doing it for money or
fame,
don't do it.
if you're doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don't do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don't do it.
if it's hard work just thinking about doing it,
don't do it.
if you're trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.

if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you're not ready.

don't be like so many writers,
don't be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don't be dull and boring and
pretentious, don't be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don't add to that.
don't do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don't do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don't do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

Charles Bukowski (1920-1994)

Another American poet, Charles Bukowski began writing at a young age and was first published in the 1940s.

According to his own myth making, Bukowski returned to writing the day that he quit the Postal Service!

Edgar Albert Guest was a prolific United States poet, popular in the first half of the 20th century.

His philosophy towards his verse was : "I take simple everyday things that happen to me and I figure it happens to a lot of other people and I make simple rhymes out of them."

MY CREED

To live as gently as I can;
To be, no matter where, a man;
To take what comes of good or ill
And cling to faith and honor still;
To do my best, and let that stand
The record of my brain and hand;
And then, should failure come to me,
Still work and hope for victory.

To have no secret place wherein
I stoop unseen to shame or sin;
To be the same when I'm alone
As when my every deed is known;
To live undaunted, unafraid
Of any step that I have made;
To be without pretense or sham
Exactly what men think I am.

To leave some simple mark behind
To keep my having lived in mind;
If enmity to aught I show,
To be an honest, generous foe,
To play my little part, nor whine
That greater honors are not mine.
This, I believe, is all I need
For my philosophy and creed.

Edgar Albert Guest (1881-1959)

I am alone, in spite of love,
In spite of all I take and give—
In spite of all your tenderness,
Sometimes I am not glad to live.

I am alone, as though I stood
On the highest peak of the tired gray world,
About me only swirling snow,
Above me, endless space unfurled;

With earth hidden and heaven hidden,
And only my own spirit's pride
To keep me from the peace of those
Who are not lonely, having died.

Sara Teasdale

This is where I would like to be in this hot weather. But get that bear out first!

There's a polar bear
In our Frigidaire—
He likes it 'cause it's cold in there.
With his seat in the meat
And his face in the fish
And his big hairy paws
In the buttery dish,
He's nibbling the noodles,
He's munching the rice,
He's slurping the soda,
He's licking the ice.
And he lets out a roar
If you open the door.
And it gives me a scare
To know he's in there—
That polary bear
In our Fridgitydaire.

Sheldon Allan Silverstein (1930-1999)

As a change, something short and light-hearted . . .

From Hilaire Belloc

IS THERE ANY REWARD?

Is there any reward?
I'm beginning to doubt it.
I am broken and bored,
Is there any reward
Reassure me, Good Lord,
And inform me about it.
Is there any reward?
I'm beginning to doubt it.

One of my readers in the United States thinks that the best poems I post to this blog are those by Sara Teasdale.

Enjoy LB!

THE RETURN

He has come, he is here,
My love has come home,
The minutes are lighter
Than flying foam,

The hours are like dancers
On gold-slippered feet,
The days are young runners
Naked and fleet --

For my love has returned,
He is home, he is here,
In the whole world no other
Is dear as my dear!

Sara Teasdale

DEW

I dream that he is mine,
I dream that he is true,
And all his words I keep
As rose-leaves hold the dew.

O little thirsty rose,
O little heart beware,
Lest you should hope to hold
A hundred roses' share.

Sara Teasdale

Do you remember "In Paris With You", by James Fenton, a poem I posted here some time ago?

Well, here is Scotland's greatest poet, Robbie Burns, saying something similar.

Talk not of love, it gives me pain,
For love has been my foe;
He bound me in an iron chain,
And plung'd me deep in woe.

But friendship's pure and lasting joys,
My heart was form'd to prove;
There, welcome win and wear the prize,
But never talk of love.

Your friendship much can make me blest,
O why that bliss destroy?
Why urge the only, one request
You know I will deny?

Your thought, if Love must harbour there,
Conceal it in that thought;
Nor cause me from my bosom tear
The very friend I sought.

Robert Burns ("In The Guise Of Friendship")