The Pilgrimage, Book II: Part 24 / Phillip Neal Tippin
I will not speak this language long,
Yet speak clingingly
To what it holds anon.
Maybe I iterated through your good taste,
And passing it by, in haste,
Have lost my only way.
When you bury Hope with a shovel
It feels you must be burying death.
A touch of the heat through the leaves,
But with this breeze, still, take your ease.
My thoughts, unwinnowed in wisdom,
Would rather resist a chaffing wind
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