Poetry Archives

Stumbling and panting, on he ran, and on.
His slobbering lips could only cry, “Christine!
My Dearest Love!  My Wife!  Where are you gone?
What future is our past?  What saturnine,
Sardonic devil’s jest has bid us live
Two years together in a puff of smoke?
It was no dream, I swear it!  In some star,
Or still imprisoned in Time’s egg, you give
Me love.  I feel it.  Dearest Dear, this stroke
Shall never part us, I will reach to where you are.”