Eclipse of the Moon HTML version

books and thoughts and news and work a jumbled
path through
summer fields, always old, always ahead, always
to be encountered
in time a drop of water
the April air is clear and it is raining in the
green fields
(Return to Contents)
I can never do it
get through the day on this mistake,
bitterness and all it
imposes. Trumpeters of the small,
awake; play music that all,
happy and sad, may make.
A heart that hardens
before its own tenderness
finds a luxuriant garden
in rhyme, and that's the snare
I won't be caught in here:
come, trumpets, that I may bless.
Each morning
I fight with my pen's
bitter singing
to make it whole
to make a soul
that makes all over again.
Trumpets of delight,
I hear your voices far:
what is the song? — Write
for a waking child:
his morning tears and smiles
are all that these words are.
(Return to Contents)
After James Shirley
"The glories of
our blood and state"
The stresses of the single life
are shadows, not substantial things;
a little love, a little strife,