Nothing can tempt me from this verse:
One time it's a woman's face, or worse--
The seeming needs of my fool-driven land;
Now everything is within my hand
And this accustomed toil. When I was young,
I had not a penny for a song
There were no poets to sing life with such airs
To make one believe they too housed a sword upstairs;
Yet would be now, could I but grant my wish,
Bolder and stronger and fainter than a kiss.

11/11/2011

Posted on 11/11/2011
Copyright © 2025 Rob Littler