ODE TO H.M.

If I could name that which I most desire,

I fear my tongue would slack, for want of heart,

Or rather, will collapsed and weariness

Within. It can’t have only been a dream,

A tumult swiftly come and gone, and past?

I fear it’s true, for now no heart remains

In me to ache, to yearn, to warm, or grow,

But only rest, return to mind’s clear eye,

And pay respect towards my daily cares.

I am content to think no more what’s past.

Yet do not think that I might scorn our time;

No, no! Cast far the thought that I may scowl

When glancing back upon our month of trial,

Of tossing back and forth upon a sea

Of doubt, of slim to overwhelming swells

Of tearful, bittersweet devotion not to

You, but to the truth. Though as you know,

The tide swayed mightily toward your shores

As well, alternatively. Ah, no more!

Our time is spent, and so my heart is dry.

And dripping wet with hope’s last cries,

I sit above the roar and live my life,

A life not unchanged from that fiery pass,

But, as we know, burned free from former dregs

Which hardened thick around my heart and mind

From ancient battles won but wounding still.

Do I still dream? Hold fast! There’s music in

The air! Away from here! Beyond the shore!

Do listen. Though our time resembles waste,

I stand, and stride in knowing naught was vain.

My dear H.M., you poet who thinks so low

Of poetry, may likely fail to hear

My distant message. But! As you, across

The isle, are still within my sight, still I’ll

Wave, and smile, until you’re out of view.

And you will music make on instruments,

And I will music pen in words of ink,

Apart, but still a part of what’s unheard:

That symphony which plays about our sphere,

Which never ends; perhaps you might return.