"Leave off life awhile. It's overrated. Nancy, you blue eyes toward death, as if toward Another shore whose beating sands were war-drums Marching you out of life and sense-- and love; 5 For I had loved you. Together we'd poured Each hourglass with centuries-- to the crest! And now, insensible and languid And any milky tear, I watch awash These blank solemnities and joyless vigours 10 Strut their little glittering while before me, Prating: I am life! I am alive! Alive,-- Has not a salamander's tail, disjointed from the sleek head, and fidgeting in the hard palm Like threads of fire, as much claim upon 15 The grounds of self-animation as these Who clamor ecstacies? The quiet nun Or quaker staring walls down in her church Commands vibrant meditations in a breath Unbreathed; voiceless, and without even 20 So much as an eyelid's unconscious stir That might annoy a flea, the devotee Whirls the cosmos round her like a cloak Invisible, and the kneeling stars in choir Warm her hush contemplation, those white maids 25 Stirred to comfort an unmoving central calm. And so, to cut short the dogs' whining yip And defoliate the grievy wreath of death Before its planted, blackly ribboned, Above my Nancy's unuttering grave 30 And avoid the choked yodeling condolences (Almost worse than the shrived chastisement Of my sense!) and dolorous crowds of mourners Stamping passports out of my private grief For a photo-op of mourning stardom, 35 I'll pack myself into a holy cloister, Eschew the tasteless ornaments of this world, Revile in silence the thousand hands Excited to touch, or anxious to please, Holding nothing but their wanting of me, 40 Discard the thin sensuality of flesh Poor in variety, lost in having, And in saving spent, whereby we each Mock ourselves in choosing one above another, Exiled from all this aping mockery 45 And saved in being lost, found in being saved, I'll quit this exchange of jibes, this commerce, This weary commerce of weak weary souls, Primping worn attitudes in new attire And withdraw as the widowed spider 50 To her pall, mourning-gorged, defeat inflicted, Damaged in spirit and in sense maligned, Grim in prayer to the godless absolutes, Nature's cheating majesty that cannot cease with us And that way pay love. Drive on, drive on."
From the collection "Hymns"
Written by Gregg Glory [Gregg G. Brown]
More information available on gregglory.com.