In that which
lies beyond our inmost point,
We hold the rose
between its thorn and bloom;
A token of a
love to live the day
We lay it lengthwise
on this loved one’s tomb.
Rescued from
your phantomed palace of print,
The cautious
prayer for which you always paid;
I thread a needle
through those bloodied years
And, stitch-by-stitch,
I fashion them to fade.
Shall we in lovers’
hearts as truth anoint,
With substance
from which swollen spring is poured,
These riches
excavated from our wounds
And strike the
beggar’s breast with sheath-freed sword.
To love is to
labour; to labour, love.
Then whosoever
seeks to shun such choice,
Let not my name
lie loose between their lips,
But linger long
upon your violet voice.
