I can only look to me to find the way it all began - this confusion, constant

When I consider how my light is spent

Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,

And that one talent which is death to hide,

Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent

To serve therewith my Maker, and present

My true account, lest He returning chide,

'Doth God exact day labor, light denied?

I fondly ask. But Patience to prevent

That murmur soon replies, 'God doth not need

Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best

Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state

Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,

And post o'er land and ocean without rest;

They also serve who only stand and wait.............

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""
                                           something.....

And so it came to be

this isolation that I am

I can only look to me

to find the way it all began -

this confusion, constant

hunger for something more than this

I strive to find this being

that I envision, yet seem to miss.

Could it be that I am empty-

or maybe a little lost?

Could it be that I am lonely,

or seek happiness at any cost?

This never-ending Something

that I am living deep inside,

depicts the illusion of myself

and all I have to hide.

 """""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""'

 There is grey in your hair.

Young men no longer suddenly catch their breath

When you are passing;

But maybe some old gaffer mutters a blessing

Because it was your prayer

Recovered him upon the bed of death.

For your sole sake - that all heart's ache have known,

And given to others all heart's ache,

From meagre girlhood's putting on

Burdensome beauty - for your sole sake

Heaven has put away the stroke of her doom,

So great her portion in that peace you make

By merely walking in a room.

Your beauty can but leave among us

Vague memories, nothing but memories.

A young man when the old men are done talking

Will say to an old man, "Tell me of that lady

The poet stubborn with his passion sang us

When age might well have chilled his blood.'

Vague memories, nothing but memories,

But in the grave all, all, shall be renewed.

The certainty that I shall see that lady

Leaning or standing or walking

In the first loveliness of womanhood,

And with the fervour of my youthful eyes,

Has set me muttering like a fool.

You are more beautiful than any one,

And yet your body had a flaw:

Your small hands were not beautiful,

And I am afraid that you will run

And paddle to the wrist

In that mysterious, always brimming lake

Where those What have obeyed the holy law

paddle and are perfect. Leave unchanged

The hands that I have kissed,

For old sake's sake.

The last stroke of midnight dies.

All day in the one chair

From dream to dream and rhyme to rhyme I have

ranged

In rambling talk with an image of air:

Vague memories, nothing but memories.

"""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""""