Couplets

Collected Couplets

In poesy’s touch is poet’s vain,
But humble’s loss is beauty’s gain.

If rancid husks is refuse play,
Then let the worms have offal's say.

The sunny sky, the canvas bright;
An ink-pot's swirl, a stormy night.

Though midnight’s shadow obscures our sight,
The darkness never disproves the light.

The heavy death of ghostly soul
Seeks perfection of it’s whole.

A poet can hide in fluid flourishes,
And never write a line that nourishes.

The poet, whose ugliness aired
In verse, writes scant stinking merde.

The poet's prerogative is to fuss
about other poets—that they should hush.

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When hands that screw the bulbs begin to cramp,
The moonlight’s warmth relumes our faintest lamps.

The wise are hushed when wordless bells ring out,
Which ring renewal through fallen crashed redoubts.

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Rattle the drum, rattle the drum, rattle
The drum, ti-tum ti-tum.

Open the door, lock up the keys,
Let in the wind, blowing its wheeze.

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At the start you must go to the end,
If its fullness you wish to befriend.

If at once you do not make a killing,
I suppose it won’t stop you from shilling.

If the dead will not speak to your name,
Then the silence will count to your shame.