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If poetry comes not so naturally as leaves to a tree it had better not come at all. - Keats

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                               To V.Piast

Cruel May!.. The northern nights are sleepless...
At the gate a rap: come, rise from bed!
Blue the haze behind me  creeping softly,
The  unknown... and death, and death ahead.
Wild-eyed women at the world stare fiercely;
Crushed, a rose hangs limp above the breast.
Wake! With sharp-edged daggers stab and pierce me,
From my passions free me, let me rest!

It is good to join the dancers moving
In a fiery ring around the lea,
Drink young wine, plait garlands, share a secret
With your pretty partner laughingly;
Good to shower with blooms another's sweetheart
And be drunk with passion, joy and pain,-
But it's better still to plough a furrow
And to tread the pearly dew of dawn!

1908