Put Away Your Pen
One loses track of the beauty of poetry under such
Circumstances as these. The sun's shining brightly.
It's warm, but not hot. The trees' leaves, new grown,
Are a riot of green, and the fields in the distance
Are dark. It has rained. How much more would
A melody, made out of words, made coherent,
Enhance what already is here, and how gravely
Would gimmicky seminar nonsense or doggerel,
Injure a glorious day? The question is fair.
Does today warrant poetry? Possibly not. Nature
Shines on its own, and the words of the halt
And the lame and the precious serve only
To tarnish its sheen.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
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Written on 2022-05-16 at 01:19
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