The first bunch can be found here. These were written in rapid succession.
Those for whom dreams are a welcome refuge
And the silence of sleep their sole respite
Mourn at dawn for another lost deluge
And search the drab earth to regain that height.
There they call all they see the fabled truth,
For all seems to be beauty incarnate.
For there headless lies are woven to soothe
And assure them they belong to this state.
What sad mimics, what a sorry charade
The deceits of dreams have lately become.
Fastened to you by an unbroken braid,
From their foolhardy hold I always run.
Some sleepers to night may gladly resign,
But when I see you I know you are mine.
Let’s gather it all in a solemn place,
And stare surely at what we held sacred:
Grey idols, memories we would chase,
Hollow enchanters boredom calls blessed.
On wandering evenings of no matter,
Plain treks to a destination well-worn,
There is nothing, almost nothing to spur
The pulling of the remembering thorn.
Pitiful to pass the precious hours
In time squandered or honourably spent,
But your love’s truth, grace, and powers
Forces my drab memories to relent.
Let us lead these lies to a worthy tomb,
And let our love feed, grow, and bloom
My thoughts were once a shiftless wilderness,
Mad as I was—passing from place to place
Confessing to sin, sinning to confess—
Praying idleness could let me efface
The search for what is fleetingly fresh
In green forests rich, but truthfully bare:
Where fair spirits die with the feckless flesh
And clocks cackle as the vines ensnare
Youth and its red lustre with certainty,
For a free soul without an object pure
Is a windblown weed without real liberty,
Another lost to the world’s false allure.
I embrace your light and the shadows fall,
Next to you this earth is nothing at all.
Wisdom is a tortured slope seldom scaled
By youth or age. For one is too tender,
The other has tried—and already failed.
What sage proverbs could the aged confer
Upon days and nights so unlike their own,
For everyone has a time and but one time
And save for that moment, we are alone.
Then to blank innocence do we align
To stave the decay, life’s cold retort
To the highest hopes of our beginnings?
Naturally some ships will remain in port
And ponder everything’s underpinnings.
From plain time our love let us retreat;
Let us let time be neither fate nor conceit .
The master smith will whisper to her ore
And slowly sow the seeds of her design,
For it does not know the shapes it may take
Or through what honeyed charms she can refine
The basest of beasts, the weakest of minds
In the scarlet hearth of a forge most kind.
Perhaps a gutless block would not welcome
The breathless blaze of each blinding blow
For from such beauties the hapless run
Lest they be caught by eyes and lips that know
Their hearts better than they, or would request
They grow again and forsake the fallow.
Let my mould and course be once more recast,
Made mutable by a love unsurpassed.
Against my will, with nothing to my name,
I entered a vessel some have envied.
For their arrivals have been much the same,
But with the sun their looks have not agreed.
This splendid symmetry you admire
Conceals uneven terrain within me.
Of these jagged things you do not tire,
For you know they are beauty’s penalty.
Better still you can whisper with shadows,
The groping cliffs with uncertain edges,
The unexpected encroach of arrows
That enliven the sad sand-swept ledges.
Let the rivulets assume a single course,
For in you they find a purer source.
When the air is crisp and I can commune
With ancient texts or a fortifying tome
Dawn is destined to trouble me too soon
And banish me from my nocturnal home.
When raptured to my untainted abodes
I can see endless wonders within me;
Distant stars, the meanest moods and modes,
Weave themselves together unknowingly.
There is not a thought unturned by the tide
Nor a paltry sand speck it does not know:
A more perfect portrait can be espied
Than in the discordant realms below.
Without you these ventures would be for nought,
For you encompass all that can be sought.