Books Are So Full of Lovers
Books are so full of lovers and their ways —
The flickering pulse and breath, the urge of lips —
That one who must go lonely all his days
Had better fare the way of wind and ships
And let his quartos yellow on the shelf,
And let the worm and mould achieve their will ...
Or take all Romeo's torment on himself,
And, reft of Romeo's peace, be frustrate still.
Oh, they are pestilent folk who write of lovers
Always, lacking wit for ruggeder things.
Better the wild, windy trail of the plovers,
The wheeling sky and the thrust of savage wings.
Better the bone's ache than the heart's, by far!
... Fool, can you strike her face from leaf and star?
The flickering pulse and breath, the urge of lips —
That one who must go lonely all his days
Had better fare the way of wind and ships
And let his quartos yellow on the shelf,
And let the worm and mould achieve their will ...
Or take all Romeo's torment on himself,
And, reft of Romeo's peace, be frustrate still.
Oh, they are pestilent folk who write of lovers
Always, lacking wit for ruggeder things.
Better the wild, windy trail of the plovers,
The wheeling sky and the thrust of savage wings.
Better the bone's ache than the heart's, by far!
... Fool, can you strike her face from leaf and star?
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