Poetry Archives

Out of the window a sea of green trees
 Lift their soft boughs like the arms of a dancer,
They beckon and call me, “Come out in the sun!”
 But I cannot answer.

I am alone with Weakness and Pain,
 Sick abed and June is going,
I cannot keep her, she hurries by
 With the silver-green of her garments blowing.

Men and women pass in the street
 Glad of the shining sapphire weather,
But we know more of it than they,
 Pain and I together.

They are the runners in the sun,
 Breathless and blinded by the race,
But we are watchers in the shade
 Who speak with Wonder face to face.