A Purpose of Poetry
“For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d”
The hands of poets are encircled by
A ring of gold—or rings of gold and life.
Such hands know much of wrinkled clouds and sky,
Of thorns, and of the after rains of strife.
The way each part of flowers rhymes with each
Is held up for consideration. Red
Turns into purple as the summer’s reach
Brings warmth and heat and storms. The flower bed
Has remnants underneath that fade away
Against the soil but, up above, that hand
Protects the living blossom from the sway
Of harshness in the wind. A wedding band
And fingers hold the surge of colored thrill
A moment. Otherwise nothing is still.