03-25-2012, 02:10 AM
Revised 19/03/12
When you and I were summer, and the sky
was greyer than the green that grew between
my linden and your oaken strength, serene,
eternal as the shadows passing by,
you whispered me a question; my reply
was lost upon the winds of might-have-been,
for change must come to every tranquil scene
and gifts from gods are not what they imply.
Forever is a dream lost to the dawn
and temples fall to dust beneath the years,
while roses split the stones and oceans dry;
yet boughs will bend and brave the tearing thorn
to claim the scars as treasured souvenirs,
and laugh until the summer, you and I.
***********
I sometimes think a sonnet is the redeemed
form of poetry, possessing the lawful power
and authority of kings.
The considered pace is ballet; a sonnet has
not the ornaments of other forms--courteous
to a fault, it yet effects an outer-wall of
a castle amd protects the maritime whose
extrcoastal purview is immense. A sonnet
rebuffs disguised prose, prose pretending
poetry in lines that do not run all the way
across the page.
A pathetic of our times.
A sonnet drains Mrs. Thrale's tea cup, leaves
no stain or Dr. Johnson's fingerprints.
A sonnet is sublime-- in the Longinian sense,
and in the Dennisian sense of Alpine reverence.
Such is the company fallen into by this entry.
Amputation by edit or suggestion is forbidden,
for reason of my dull saw.
Delighted,
rh
When you and I were summer, and the sky
was greyer than the green that grew between
my linden and your oaken strength, serene,
eternal as the shadows passing by,
you whispered me a question; my reply
was lost upon the winds of might-have-been,
for change must come to every tranquil scene
and gifts from gods are not what they imply.
Forever is a dream lost to the dawn
and temples fall to dust beneath the years,
while roses split the stones and oceans dry;
yet boughs will bend and brave the tearing thorn
to claim the scars as treasured souvenirs,
and laugh until the summer, you and I.
***********
I sometimes think a sonnet is the redeemed
form of poetry, possessing the lawful power
and authority of kings.
The considered pace is ballet; a sonnet has
not the ornaments of other forms--courteous
to a fault, it yet effects an outer-wall of
a castle amd protects the maritime whose
extrcoastal purview is immense. A sonnet
rebuffs disguised prose, prose pretending
poetry in lines that do not run all the way
across the page.
A pathetic of our times.
A sonnet drains Mrs. Thrale's tea cup, leaves
no stain or Dr. Johnson's fingerprints.
A sonnet is sublime-- in the Longinian sense,
and in the Dennisian sense of Alpine reverence.
Such is the company fallen into by this entry.
Amputation by edit or suggestion is forbidden,
for reason of my dull saw.
Delighted,
rh