Of Earthly Love

For I have read
in the long poems written long ago by men and women
writing of their love
that time might go
like a breath blowing in the night
and they be dead
but still their love would beacon like Warwick light.

It is not so.

The illumination's done
that lit the fondest ship its phantom way,
the lighthouse has been ruined and the rock on
which it stood has crumbled quite away,
the flesh that once was warm at last has kept-
hidden from the eye of impartial sun-
its bodily faith, and here to-night has slept
where love, all love, is done.

Isatiate longing, let it be enough
to have been breifly of immortal stuff.

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