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  • NOBLE POETRY  

  • YOUNG HOPE

     


    So there stood the man with the poet's life. On the faces of the chubby, scarred faces of the yarrow-blossomed, the glowing embers of innovative ideas were aflame. Hesitant lips his immortal Beloved had not yet kissed, Yet his passionate holy thoughts had warmed many a woman's heart. Already throughout the crystal-shingled hall Tiny firelights flickered; might have filled At least in moments the restless spirits With awe-weighing devotion. 

    Beneath widening marble arches, in rows of chests that had fallen silent, an unexpected thrill of surprises throbbed ever more gradually. In an age of unforeseen delayed decisions, the Heart, that deep-fire, sacred caldron of flame, thundered with a constricted fatality. Like a volcano nearing a lava-boil; greedy, and insidious desires like swift killing, secret blades, they assailed silently, while reason could scarcely throw forbidding brakes upon them. 

    Thus the poet stood hesitating among us, And in his wounded heart himself trembled uncertain! Like a Don Quixote in disguise, perhaps, romantic to the core, Chasing his knightly ideals delusively before him, To boldly receive the glory of ticklingly bright lady-eyes, And to fertilize a multitude of barbarian brutes As the culture-fighting messenger he always longed to be. 

    Thus stood the poet at his hesitating, trembling prom, Who was not fatally excited by the weight of contests, - But by the cock-crowing duels of hot-headed and proud minds, Thirsting for bright success, if not foiled by murderous ways. Had he gone forth to meet the world with such a stubborn mind, he could not have known that he would sooner fall into the abyss of easy forgetfulness!  
      

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