Were I a poet with a golden tongue
I could paint better pictures with my words:
Telling of love, when everything feels young,
All sounds are like the music of the birds,
Fleeting, yet delirious with joy,
And every moment lingers in the heart
Free from all suspicion of annoy.
But as I am, I cannot even start
To draw such pictures; I am forced to toll
A different tune, carreled on iron bells,
With heavy accent of unwished-for dole
And passage through dim internal hells,
For I am no light poet, and you are
My inspiration, and flung from me far.
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