Marriage, Like Money, Is Still

We Forget Cruelty And Past Betrayal, Heedless Of Where The Next Bright Bolt May Fall.

When A Dream Is Born In You With A Sudden Clamorous Pain, When You Know The Dream Is True And Lovely, With No Flaw Nor Stain, O Then, Be Careful, Or With Sudden Clutch You'll Hurt The Delicate Thing You Prize So Much.

The Sap Of Spring In The Young Wood A-stir Will Celebrate With Green The Mother, And Every Song-bird Shout Awhile For Her; But We Are Gifted, Even In November Rawest Of Seasons, With So Huge A Sense Of Her Nakedly Worn Magnificence We Forget Cruelty And Past Betrayal, Heedless Of Where The Next Bright Bolt May Fall.

She Tells Her Love While Half Asleep, In The Dark Hours, With Half-words Whispered Low: As Earth Stirs In Her Winter Sleep And Puts Out Grass And Flowers Despite The Snow, Despite The Falling Snow.

There's No Money In Poetry, But Then There's No Poetry In Money, Either.