black poetry

this is the song of youth
i have come into the desert because my soul is athirst
very well, you liberals
a thin gray shadow on the edge of thought
the little white prayers
my mother twines me roses wet with dew
last midnight
he's gone
i know not where
sun and wind and beat of sea
our pleasant moments fly
sweet with fern and rose
out of me unworthy and unknown
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies