Once I wrote a thing
I thought very beautiful.
I read it later.
Did not understand.
All its meaning was hidden
From me and others.
The virtue of verse
Is that its meaning may be
Completely hidden.
God seems to like it,
Almost always, done that way.
He watches it all
From above. I saw
Also, and sung about it,
And no one heard me,
And no one sang back.
I listened very closely,
And I heard nothing.
I read it again
Much later; and finally,
I understood it.
As dawn they rise whilst waning moon are we;
How fairest they wherefrom increase our lives;
Incalescence to our recondity,
As one might give, the other so deprives.
Yet in thine eye burns reason’s flame; as fell,
As rivalled, any flame of spring might be;
And seem’st thou wise to all wherewith thou dwell’,
Though reason’s merest bloom to wisdom’s tree.
And through thy tempest, still art thou as fair
In deed, in sight, content to slake and quell
The worst of spring. Thou: tender, unaware,
Dost far more bring than wouldst thou take. As well,
Thine innocence doth thrive: awake, laid bare;
So true, wilt thou survive the world’s despair.
This sonnet is part of a short, or
possibly at some point, very long
sequence; click here to read it all:
Could, fine as you, another woman be,
Who surely has no equal on the Earth?
Could there have been some perfect virgin birth
Which consecrates impossibility?
Could there exist a worthy bond, as we
Have formed, through such a perfect sanctity?
Could one unearth a work of art, so free
Of flaw as you? The Angels would decree:
God made the Earth; one miracle was done,
And then within His realm did he make two.
No wonder of the world could have begun
Until the Great Almighty God, who knew
His Miracle, complete with only one,
Created me, and gave this gift to you.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
Sister-love, and wife
Thou, my greatest joy in life,
Art worth every strife.
Curious, the rain whence cometh down,
She falleth soft in overwhelming drops;
In peace, her quietly pervading sound
Transformeth sun and moon–so uninvited.
Strange, that once her drops, when they invade,
As former they, her forest’s ardour stops;
Though cities in the stead of trees pervade
And held as quiet sway–so unexcited.
Pleasing, how again she doth return
Such streets and buildings, parking lots and shops;
To older days for which they seem to yearn,
So mixt with all her fallen tears–united.
Older she than land they wrest; her crops,
If brick or straw are we–and unrequited.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
Back, perhaps by popular demand,
Once again, shall my pen turn rainward,
To wash away one desire;
To cleanse its paper palette,
Making way for others quite the opposite,
Although every bit as lovely.
My beauty-rain, O let me feel thy cooling
Warmth again–thine effervescent touch;
To sink within thy sweetest nature, pooling;
Feel thy sweetest yield surround me such:
First hint of tender touch and faerie fire
So doth mee now thy promised passion lend,
And fill mee with my single heart’s desire:
To dance the love thine elements portend.
For thee, my passion climbeth as none other,
Yearning songs, yet melancholy, slow;
When thou art near, my gentle, warming love,
Thou bringest lasting peace though must thou goe.
Could any foolish mortal claim the right
To boast thou dost caress, unknowingly, thy man tonight?
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
David Emeron: Sonnets 