the evening rose

My Poetry

These fifty books of verse, all new
How could my tardy mind conceive?
How each book quite different from other
Such wealth of rhyme and rhythm achieve

A mystery to me as to you, when, reader!
In three languages my poems I see
When on a new subject each time
Pour down with ease my sensibility

But how could the poet in me survive
Had I not sung for the power Supreme
Prayed not to Him to maintain my urge
Cried not for a drop of His creative stream

All things in the world, though, turn to dust
He won’t let die my verse, I trust.

Apr. ’09