The magic of verse is undone,
No music warms this stoned one.
Dare I write the last poem of all tonight?
If only man, in his ecstasy or plight
Could ever gauge the failing of mortal flesh
The weakness bred in bones, in skin moulting afresh
He would hide behind his hands in utter shame!
The mystic would find his God; the lover, his love - lame.
O weakling I, were I but as resolute!
I would paint the swirling winds a mournful gray
Garb the waking world in a coal array
Parade my sorrow in a platter on my head
So stoned, no verse would stir me, till I was dead.
But weakling I, in utter weakness sigh!
A bubbling mirth when it rises today
Is smothered, by a pang of guilt, on its way.
But tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow
The day is underway when this immense sorrow
Will succumb to the weakness bred in my bones
I shall laugh my heart out as I kick on the stones...
No, I dare not write the last poem
For Oh! I Cannot write my last poem!
My resolutions are, like my very life, paltry
I know I shall smile again on things petty
The dance of rain will stir my heart yet
Music will melt this ice palace wet
I shall be happy, someday soon, again
And so, I shall write, O so soon, Again!
