funny poetry

often is it not so?
the little pitiful, worn, laughing faces
i saw the first pear
a blue-black nubian plucking oranges
if i should die, think only this of me
softly now the light of day
gone are the three, those sisters rare
when i go back to earth
on and on
a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue
in your arms was still delight
do you think, my boy, when i put my arms around you
weak-winged is song
sad are they who know not love