With Love to X---
I write verses, when they summon me.
Never were you called; you do not know
what merry fun to tear your chest and see
those pretty driftwords in the bloody flow.
For who? You stand with red lips and ask me that
and think my mouth will answer? (Holy name:
I will not speak it!) I, aristocrat,
may write: I write for no one . . . just for fame.
how? I write them jubilant and sad,
dreaming with love and filled with soft enchant,
the next line shivering into tears. Apart
from these odd gaieties, I write them bad
and beautiful, I write them jubilant
and sad: on crumpled paper like my heart.
Alan C. Elms
Copyright (c) 1959 by Penn State Froth.
Reprinted with permission.