Poem 1:
O Rose thou art sick.
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night
in the howling storm:
Has found out thy bed
of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
Poem 2:
I have met them at close of day
Coming with vivid faces From Counter or desk among grey Eighteenth-century houses I have passed with a nod of the head Or polite meaningless words Or have lingered awhile and said Polite meaningless words, And thought before I had done Of a mocking tale or a gibe To please a companion Around the fire at the club, being certain that they and I But lived where motley is worn: All changed, changed utterly: A terrible beauty is born. . . (stanza 2 + 3) |
Too long a sacrifice
|
Poem 3:
The politicians,
(who are buying huge cars with hobnailed wheels the size of merry-go-rounds)
have a new plan. They are going to
put cobbles
in our eyesockets
and pebbles in our navels ,or and fill us up
with asphalt
and lay us side by side
so that we can take a more active part in the road
to destruction.