I praise the skies, I praise the rain, And scarce I would have lain
My thoughts to rest, these thoughts so faint, Like prayers of a saint…
The words will spread a languid taint. But truly, I would fain
Have let them die, those silent stains— Like Abel killed by Cain.
My words doth sing, perhaps they soothe, Or cause heartbeats to move
To new-spread skies. Maybe a truth You’ll find, or say “In sooth
This is a waste of time.” The roof Is capped on growing youth,
And Time will steal each dropping tooth Like muscle from the wolves.
So venture on, you eyes—these rhymes I pray will stand through Time;
I ride these words o’er endless lines And lash out at my mind.
Perhaps thou’lt find the scent of pines, A sweetly shining dime,
Or live the dream of crimson wines That flow through sturdy vines…
And here is shown my work of years. A final, slipshod fear
Has bid me show these words. No tears!— These, all, I do hold dear.