Still, know I not.
Still know I not,
The poetry,
Comes forth.
Long did it rest,
Rest, in My soul
Rest, in My soul
Then whence,
was it, still.
Their it, to lie,
the truth, it no more.
Then more, no less,
It ly'th, no more.
“Out of the quarrel with others we make rhetoric; out of the quarrel with ourselves we make poetry.” ― William Butler Yeats
Comments
Post a Comment
I love to collect thoughts. I would love to collect some of yours, if they are mindful and respectable.