Above Stars and Clouds

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

The thoughtful soul to solitude retires
Here with a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough, A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse and Beside me singing in the Wilderness and Wilderness is Paradise now.

Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend, Before we too into the Dust descend; Dust into Dust, and under Dust to lie Sans Wine, sans Song, sans Singer, and sans End.

Come, fill the Cup, and in the fire of Spring Your Winter garment of Repentance fling The Bird of Time bas but a little way To flutter and the Bird is on the Wing.

Myself when young did eagerly frequent doctor and saint, and heard great argument about it and about but evermore came out by the same door as in I went.

There was the Door to which I found no key; There was the Veil through which I might not see.

Drink for you know not whence you came nor why drink for you know not why you go, nor where.

The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon Turns Ashes or it prospers; and like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face, Lighting a little hour or two is gone.
When I want to understand what is happening today or try to decide what will happen tomorrow, I look back.

The moving finger writes, and having written moves on. Nor all thy piety nor all thy wit, can cancel half a line of it.

Living Life Tomorrow's fate, though one be wise, one canst not tell nor yet surmise; Pass therefore, not today in vain, For it will never come again.

A hair divides what is false and true.
And that inverted Bowl they call the Sky, Where under crawling coop'd we live and die, Lift not your hands to It for help for It As impotently moves as you or I.

Some for the Glories of This World; and some Sigh for the Beloved's Paradise to come; Ah, take the Cash, and let the Credit go, Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum.

 


Submitted: May 06, 2021

© Copyright 2021 VelvetGentleman23. All rights reserved.

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