Such are the Blue Climes

Poetry speak of the wind in the trees

And sings on of earth's sublime, steady breath,

And bells in the soul a-tolled by that breeze -

Yet such gorgeous climes mark a muse's death.

*

A poem begins in a brutal dearth:

the dry hollow drum of cracked cistern hearts;

Voids of love-light, joy bright, meadowy earth:

Such are the blue climes where poetry starts.

*

Could the starry heavens be much admired

Without the tenebrous backdrop of night?

Would the soft shadowed woods be so desired

Were the world not warped by cold city light?

*

In unmet yearning, inspired rains release;

In our shards, seek, find, the most crucial peace.