Poetry Archives

If on isle of the sea
          I have to tarry,
With one book, let it be
          A Dictionary.
For though I love life’s scene,
          It seems absurd,
My greatest joy has been
          The printed word.

Though painter with delight
          May colours blend,
They are but in his sight
          Means to an end.
Yet while I harmonise
          Or pattern them,
A precious word I prize
          Like to a gem.

A fiddler lures fine tone
          From gut and wood;
A sculptor from stark stone
          Shapes godlihood.
But let me just caress,
          Like silver birds,
For their own loveliness—
          Bewitching words.