Poetry Corner of Fine Rhyme 

Page 3.

We make out of the quarrel with others, rhetoric, but of the quarrel with ourselves, poetry.
William Butler Yeats - (1865- 1939)

 Lyrical Passion Poetry E-Zine © 2007-2020

Amorous Tick         by Frank De Canio

It’s not that I’m alone
that makes me sick with grief,
but that you sap my bone
and flesh without relief.
How well I felt before
you burrowed in my breast,
encouraging rapport
with what would soon divest
me of autonomy.
Indeed, you’re in my hair
with rank economy
of means. For you’re not where
you physically should be,
but thrive in memory. 

To His Beloved       by Frank De Canio

That men have died before their time,
I will not to the distance tell;
before the spring tide leaves its rhyme,
and summer spins its midday spell.
Until the labored day is done,
and night betrays a winter chill,
when darkness shades the setting sun,
and loneliness oppresses still,
I will not stir this settled mind
with sorrows that within me dwell,
or dare confess to humankind,
the love for whom I cannot quell.

Forestalling hopes of happiness,
until the tolling of the bell,
I’ll end my days in emptiness,
and bid you of my life, farewell.

Oh death, that sounds the fatal knell,
and sears the grieving heart with pain,
if fear will give me faith to tell,
can dying love be born again?


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