sad poetry

within this lowly grave a conqueror lies
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
glass-blower of time
as a white candle
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
while i stood listening, discreetly dumb
i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
i know what you're going to say
and with the humming bird
under the harvest moon
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
sweet with fern and rose
i stood