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poliphilo This is another poem from way, way back- from before I had the craft to say what I was seeing. It has been completely overhauled, with not an original line remaining. What shall we call it? I don't remember if it even had a title in its earlier form. I know, let's call it...
The Door
The light gets in through chinks and cracks
And falls on faces made of wax,
Crowned all with wreaths of twisted gold.
Their lips are young, their eyes are old,
And you must clamber as before
Through funeral furniture to the door...
It opens on a summer's day.
Each flowerlet of the fragrant May,
Each daisy and each blade of grass
Is shining like Venetian glass.
From tower on tower the bells are ringing.
Friends are here.
Their eyes are clear,
It is your praise that they are singing.
The Door
The light gets in through chinks and cracks
And falls on faces made of wax,
Crowned all with wreaths of twisted gold.
Their lips are young, their eyes are old,
And you must clamber as before
Through funeral furniture to the door...
It opens on a summer's day.
Each flowerlet of the fragrant May,
Each daisy and each blade of grass
Is shining like Venetian glass.
From tower on tower the bells are ringing.
Friends are here.
Their eyes are clear,
It is your praise that they are singing.
