If poetry comes not so naturally as leaves to a tree it had better not come at all. - Keats
* * *
Upon the hills of Georgia lies the haze of night...
Below, the Aragva foams... The sadness
That fills the void of days is, strangely, half delight,
'Tis both sweet pain and sweeter gladness.
Because you haunt my heart, it cannot be at rest,
And yet 'tis light and untormented
By morbid thoughts... It loves... It loves because it must,
Rejoicing in the love by fortune sent it.