Poems — Confessional

CONFESSIONAL

Now that I kneel at the throne, O Queen, Pity and pardon me.

Much have I striven to sing the same, Brother of beast and tree;

Yet when the stars catch me alone Never a linnet sings-- And the blood of a man is a bitter voice And cries for foolish things.

Not for me be the vaunt of woe;

Was not I from a boy Vowed with the helmet and spear and spur To the blood-red banner of joy?

A man may sing his psalms to a stone, Pour his blood for a weed, But the tears of a man are a sudden thing, And come not of his creed.