black poetry

how like the stars are these white, nameless faces
by the shore, by the sea
my mother taught me that every night
soft as the bed in the earth
babylon-where i go dreaming
though love repine, and reason chafe
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
for then without
i love the old melodious lays
the agony of having too much power
with lips blood red and heart of stone
made up of loveliness alone