Sunday, September 6, 2015


The Rose Could Not Such A Beauty Be


The rose could not such a beauty be

If beauty did not pass away and die;

As love, the joy of love's burgeoning

Is taunted by the desolation of decay.


What was shall be again,

The future, such an ancient song,

Allows the aged - Grace in their passing

And youths to be the dancer in the song.


In summation, all words that are said

All are erased like writings in the sand;

All the mighty works of the dead

Have passed away. And what remains

For memory's sake: the sun, the sea,

Pearls, stars, rubies - these

Are not created by the hand of man.



(C)2015 by W.G.Milne

        This poem came to me all in one instant, all in one piece,
once again at 4:00 A.M.
         I remember years ago I had a crises of identity. I was awake
early in the morning and had the thought: "What am I supposed to be doing? What's my job?  What is the work I ought to pursue?"
          So I sat in my chair and looked around the room and saw
a stack of about sixteen books of poetry I had written on my shelves and on the tables and floor before me.
          "Well, I must be a poet!" I said. "I guess I'd better focus
on writing songs and poetry."
           I started living by myself, going to bed early in the evening
and waking up at 4:00 in the morning - just before dawn. It's
no hardship if you get enough sleep.
(Note: I insert the " * " between verses only because otherwise
           this system will collapse the writing into one
           long boring-looking paragraph.)

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