Everywhere the Drunken Bees
I.
Everywhere the drunken bees
Stumble among the young blossoms,
Tearing delicate victims,
Sucking vital moisture from their
Helpless lips,
Leaving but a few for time to ravage.
II.
Youth hosts beauty as September petals
Host frost — sweet steaming ice
That wastes what it adorns,
That tempts fingers to touch,
Tongues to taste
Its instant dissolution.
Excelsior
This time of life when we cannot abide
the stories of the heroes anymore,
When hopeful words mock us, and glibly chide
the ruins of high hopes we owned before;
When Spring delivers us to memory
only, with no thought of anticipation,
And we recoil involuntarily
from visions, even those of our own children;
This time of life when we no longer live,
yet suffer horrid changes, as in death,
is there a last gasp that can catch our breath?
A reveille? A soul restorative
that will do more than prod us with its voice,
but teach collapsing spirits to rejoice?