Cry Into, Softly, The Memory Of Snows

the blue and the rose period I will keep

the soul decides when you're asleep

and cries into softly the memory of snows

the diadems of stars while wondering where to go

what to hold what to dispose of-

how should the heart dispose even after so much is dissolved

love lives on to preserve despite all admonition, being, Cause

my soul, all sudden rosebuds, haggles with attrition

and seeks ever to stir the waning light

relying on the colours of the mind to shine to shine through winter

blight. through calumny, and trivial wounding

never to yield the old poems sighed the impervious poems that

were noble

oh now,instead, they write impersonations of the dead

or senseless odes to dread by design

but the soul on its worst working day had better blueprints

bright is the fruit though not the rind

the soul wills not to be buried and dreams it is so

and still will keep as Keats cried all loveliness inside;

and unimpaired:

all that was , deeper than time and vaster than despair

to this, my angel, returning, chimes

and Christ knows it may be done and this is True

who was sprung like emerald April from the tomb.

mary angela douglas 19 september 2021