When I’ve all desire
And no subject rhyme;
When I wish aspire
With no mount to climb –
I know where I must go –
Across the meadow
Where tall grasses chime,
And bestride the sylvan spring:
That fluid looking-glass
With different waters,
Same me;
And yet be differing,
Somehow less crass,
As earth unto potters,
Shape glee:
In Nature I can die;
I can see death in my wardrobe,
A garment someday I’ll wear,
When it’s the last,
And the bitterness of nude living
Is worse than its dress;
I confess,
By all things of this globe,
Death I can bear,
Without wishing it fast,
As life a gift for giving,
Kept is distress –
Mine heart does beam!
Oh! Meadow bells,
Toll for me!
Little stream,
You quench the hells
That are and are to be!
These are the places I know,
Where I need to go,
When the whim of florid poetry
Overtakes me;
When my quill has will
But no ink to spill –
These are the places I go,
Where death comes peacefully…
And slow.

-Poyetikos