THE POET’S PLIGHT
Alas, it seems I am one of few
Who knows the secrets of the rose,
The lambent light in a drop of dew,
The mysteries of moonlit snows.
Hears the whispered music of the spheres,
The songs of mountains and of trees,
Tastes the ambrosia of bitter tears
Sweet as the nectar of the bees.
Smells the fragrant, heady sunlit field,
The rain-washed scent of morning skies,
Reaps the fruitful bounty that they yield:
True knowledge of the sinner wise.
Alas, a few will dare to listen
To these songs of love and sorrow;
Translucent drops that shine and glisten,
Vanishing before the morrow.