POETS

Wordsworth
Feels the unimaginable touch of time.
Blake
Sees a world in a grain of sand.
Keats
Writes of La Belle Dame—without mercy.
Tennyson
Yearns for the voice that is still.
Longfellow
Tells of the poem of the air---the Snowflake.
Donne
Is nought but fashion, flung away.

How can these men,
And women too,
Write of such tragedy and woe,
Of love, delight and ecstasy,
Of stars and tides and flowers born on winds?
How do they make their poems rhyme
With words unique and rare
Yet in use every day,
In just their way?

I write of similar themes
But no knack have I
To put my words
In the place where they belong.
I make a sound
That delights my ear,
Yet always there is something wrong,
The words don’t say
Exactly what I feel.

I read their words
And feel uplifted
To the heights
Their passion takes me.

Of my own poor efforts
I shall say nought
Yet try again.
 
Dawn McDonald
© January 2004

Midi: "In Dulci Jubilo"
Composer: Andre Dupre
Sequencer: Serge Winitzki

Graphic: "Ojos Rojos"