My Lord, what is this folly, curse or prize
That Thou hast given to this child of Thine;
Perhaps, an answer to a prayer of mine;
Perhaps, an irony which satisfies
My very heart? Yet should I emphasize
The very art–particularly fine–
With which I am denied that sweetest wine:
That wish come true? If Thou wert truly wise,
Or simply knew what works of Thine were done,
I cannot but believe that gift would be
A sweetly kind and patronizing one;
Demanding nothing very real from me.
Considering the works I’ve done for Thee,
Couldst not Thou simply deign to set me free?
Beautifully done…but oh, so painful. The art of the poet is to make us dance with joy and weep with sorrow. As always, you are supremely skilled in the art of moving me, my dear.
I weep for the poet even though I know you are safe beside me.