To Esvm
Though the seagulls be lonely
we must
now quell the thirst
to fly,
ever trust to go within
the stables where halters
hang awry.
The morning mood
is frequently in harm,
though this be so even when
we disarm and will not spoil
and evil glint deny.
The harps are playing
in the sky, and I,
oh I, am weary.
Take me to my tent of rapture;
test my fortitude for
all times which ride
against the sky--
while spent we no more
seek recompense and die.
Copyright © Bill Yates | Year Posted 2016
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