Les plus lus ▸
Cera Brockman
Together we are now...
Never longing for each other
My weapons, now stashed,
In the corners of my mind
At the moon we stare, hand in hand
Forever in an embrace
Up in the clouds, together we stand
Never to be separated
Are we in love?
Is this joy?
Yes.
We are happy
Upon an arched sarcophagus of pain
Are figures painted in arrested embraces
With outlines so light that we must bend close to see:
Old loves almost merging to one tone
Of pale regret that holds
An inner glow of dead weeping.
Our lips cling and our breath winds to a hand
With touch like summer rain
Blending the arrested figures upon the arched sarcophagus of pain.
When autumn winds are on the hill
And darkly rides the wasting moon,
I creep within your arms, and still
Am safe in the golden heart of June.
When I am dead and you gather up my poems,
Put them all in, all those that speak of you,
Those that glanced at you in sundry disguises,
Ariadne, Daphne and the nameless nymph,
The flower-bright queen who ruled a king in China,
And the country-girl that early lost her love.
Bind up with them the frank and honest sonnets,
The open songs, the unashamed odes,
That spoke straight to you and told that I loved you,
Described your beauty or called you by name.
These are not ours ; for what I took of beauty
Belongs to our fellows for whom I write.
The traces I have left on hill-top and valley
Were made of the world and belong to the world ;
But more than half of the loveliness I captured