Thursday, 13 October 2011

"Oh, to taste again the dew"

                        Oh, to taste again the dew
                        Of a romance budding new!
                        Grant me days with Fancy's daughter,
                        With her touch as fresh as water.
                        Then, to feel the fluttered start
                        Of a newly conquered heart's
                        Sanguine beats, of youth unending;
                        Falling-pace to love ascending.
                        Till, with greedy smugness, we
                        Dare to grant eternity.
                        Then complacent trust shall conquer,
                        And our hard-won love is over.

                        Love cannot survive the chase.
                        Hearts should touch, not interlace;
                        Bound, when certain futures given
                        Grant the coward soul its heaven.
                        No! Seek not your selves to meld;
                        Passion cannot breathe when held!
                        As the flowers of spring awaken,
                        Doomed to wilt if they are taken.
                        Fear that safety! Fear warm Summer!
                        Let the dreams of March outshine her!
                        Till the cooling clouds shall cover,
                        And our hard-won love is over.

                        Romance; let her wings unfurl!
                        Into daily motions hurl
                        Reckless hopes, in free elation,
                        Rid of comfort's suffocation.
                        Do not let your touches cling;
                        Passion is a passing thing.
                        Nymph-like, it is never caught,
                        Swayed or bargained, stole or bought.
                        Love cannot survive embrace!
                        Savour Beauty, soon her face,
                        Once star-like, shall supernova,
                        And your hard-won love is over.

Tuesday, 11 October 2011

A Sonnet on the Eiffel Tower

        Oh, lonely tower! Lord of Paris fair!
        Foreboding hulk, whose empty iron-frame
        Is filled with beauty, though its bones are bare;
        And ugly, yet deserving of its fame.
        You are a poet! When you lend your view
        To those street-wand'ring souls who climb your stair;
        Who see their daily world forever new,
        And breathe at last the height-impassioned air!
        You know a poet's beauty is not found
        In his own form, but by that structured art,
        Designed to lift the people from the ground,
        Yet cursed to stand, with distant gaze, apart.

          You have a poet's vantage of retreat;
          But, poet-like, you cannot walk the street.