Just Verse

It seems the duty of a poet, now
To set in solemn phrases, words of weight:
Discourse on love — or oftener, on hate —
But always with a high and furrowed brow.

It seems the place for poets nowadays
Is either in the gallery, or pub:
The one, too fine for tainted mortal taste;
The other only fit for sweat and mud.

Our gift, too grave for light and lying tongues,
Too ancient for the fashions of today,
We’ll leave to more aesthetic lips and lungs:
Re-gift our hymns to souls that lift away.

Don’t think of those who fall! That sinful sound?
The fruit of labours profane, not profound.

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Where the Night Wind Blows

Once I was mighty, in my home of old.
In cloak of night, I wrapped my mortal frame,
Strode forth intending deeds of daring bold,
And gladly took Ill Omen for my name.

On less than ash and air, I learned to feast,
And went to walk atop a mountain wall;
But in that lonely land, my strength decreased.
I loosely held my cloak, then let it fall.

Beneath, there stood a creature of no name,
That shivered in this high and airy place;
That found no comfort in its wisps of fame,
But longed for laughter and a kind embrace.