Once in Persia reigned a king,
Who upon his signet ring
Graved a maxim true and wise,
Which, if held before his eyes,
Gave him counsel at a glance
Fit for every change and chance.
Solemn words, and these are they;
"Even this shall pass away."

Trains of camels through the sand
Brought him gems from Samarcand;
Fleets of galleys through the seas
Brought him pearls to match with these;
But he counted not his gain
Treasures of the mine or main;
"What is wealth?" the king would say;
"Even this shall pass away."

Mid the revels of his court,
At the zenith of his sport,
When the palms of all his guests
Burned with clapping at his jests,
He, amid his figs and wine,
Cried, "O loving friends of mine;
Pleasures come, but not to stay;
Even this shall pass away."

Lady, fairest ever seen,
Was the bride he crowned his queen.
Pillowed on his marriage bed,
Softly to his soul he said:
"Though no bridegroom ever pressed
Fairer bosom to his breast,
Mortal flesh must come to clay--
Even this shall pass away."

Fighting on a furious field,
Once a javelin pierced his shield;
Soldiers, with a loud lament,
Bore him bleeding to his tent.
Groaning from his tortured side,
"Pain is hard to bear," he cried;
"But with patience, day by day,
Even this shall pass away."

Towering in the public square,
Twenty cubits in the air,
Rose his statue, carved in stone.
Then the king, disguised, unknown,
Stood before his sculptured name,
Musing meekly: "What is fame?
Fame is but a slow decay;
Even this shall pass away."

Struck with palsy, sore and old,
Waiting at the Gates of Gold,
Said he with his dying breath,
"Life is done, but what is Death?"
Then, in answer to the king,
Fell a sunbeam on his ring,
Showing by a heavenly ray,
"Even this shall pass away."

—Theodore Tilton

www.esselin.com/poetry.htm

The Know It All

"What is poetry, and don't poets always lie?"
The Youth with the Golden Pen demanded to know.
He wants me to believe that he can always see
Beauty and light, even where the shadows flow.

"Could be. You may be right," was my reply.
"It all depends on how and where you look," I said.
"One man is anguished when the last leaves die,
But another dances at a friend's death bed."

The youth listened, but could not comprehend
My words, although they're plain as A-B-C.
And with a nudge, he said, "My friend,
That's a lie. I, too, write poetry."

"Colleague," I said, "We must take great care
with words, if we hope for poetic verity.
A poem can make a pig shine like a star,
But no pig has ever written poetry."


How Light And Thin

At your grave I stand, mother,
With lightened body, empty hands and head bowed down,
For respect to you, oh colossal one to whom all belongs.
I have saved two last tears,
And when they fall on your grave, mother,
I will become still lighter and thinner.

Let whosoever wishes to, put ballast on my shoulders
So that my eyes will bulge still further from my brow;
My last prayer through the blue halo
Will be heard by one else but you.

I have become light and thin, mother;
I want no God now, and no heaven.
I want only to sink into your soft grave.


Trees

Trees die not alone.
They take along with them:
The violins of the winds,
The hymns of the nests
The mirrors of the sun,
The laughter of leaves,
And a delicate perfume.
They leave behind only the mystery
Of their unity and patience.

Trees die not alone.
Trees don't die like men.


A Bull In The Snow

A bull slipped out of his stall one night
Into the white, moonlit world
He could go where he liked. He was free.
The gate closed with a scraping sound;
His ear twitched at the noise.
Was there someone about who might stop him?
No one? Then he could go-
Maybe he might even run?
He would go to the cow who had called to him.
What a voice she had--with a heartbeat in it
And something else--the flavor of the warm bran.
Just wait--it would all be worthwhile.

Snow falls steadily in a mysterious silence.
Snow upon snow--endlessly, ceaselessly
And tickles his flanks
As did long ago the broad motherly tongue
On his delicate calf's body.

Now the snow grows in height from below.
White hills slow his steps
A switch of the tail
A stamp of the mighty feet.
Each foot in a separate grave.
But it's strange--
He can't see the path.
There is only--nothing!
Not earth, not sky, not barn.
Only snow and clouds.
Low in the sky hangs a yellow moon.
The snow will pull it down,
It will fall on his head
Soft as a bale of hay.
He whips the snow with his tail--nothing!
His horns stand ready.

He'll pierce the enemy--where is it?
He shakes his head till it aches.
Even the little bell on his neck will not ring.
All wrapped in softness and white
He faces the Almighty head on.
Not a move.
Not forward, not backward.

Snow covers even the hot, sweaty buttocks,
Tops even the mane of hair.
The eyes shoot rage, fear and anguish.
The nose melts holes in the snow.
A last growling bellow:
Me-----------------e--------e----e-u-u-W!
He is completely covered.
Only the two ears stick out
Like two frozen doves.

Magdalene

My heart is dead.
But my arms are full with the space you left behind.
You said you loved me.
But you were promiscuous with the Word.
You made your decision, yet you appeared to me afterwards,
Like a bad dream: Not a nightmare, not a dream, but someplace
In between.
Regret? Or did you just want to see the resentment in my eyes.

You uttered my name, and I responded , "Rabboni."
You'd expelled the seven devils from my heart
And replaced them with something far worse.
Faithless you should've left me.
You shall forgive, but I will never forget.

My eyes you dare not meet again, Rabonni.
The morning star never shown so bright on those you left behind.

- Tristan Isolt