Hope that thrives in everything alive
	  Susceptible to inward gusts
	  And outward groans and manly 'musts,'
Hope that moves what cannot move or strive

Keeps crimsons bright around my wound,
	  That will not heal or cleave to kill;
	  Damnation is: I was born to feel.
Hope bathes these horrors with new words.

Still, if he comes, even to curse
	  The whole acquaintanceship of our days,
	  No growling hour's pinched of praise
Save when absence is our discourse.

Come again, thou ravaging tide
	  Who had a slope of easy friendship,
	  A lope like a gull, a lazy hip,
Till you rolled away and tore my side.

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Poems in pieces

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