Saturday, August 22, 2009

One Of My Earliest Poems

High away into the careless night
Where not so much as songs
Could sing me in my hour of death
Comes things that nothing matters,
Comes things that nothing teaches,
Comes on the wings of the priested cry
The darling myths of angels dying
In another ancient night
And I no more the age-drift maiden
Nor the dumb-fell man
Wing away all things that skies
And dreams create.