dark poetry

they may talk of love in a cottage
when i go back to earth
to be able to see every side of every question
be not false
somewhere i read a strange, old, rusty tale
out of the window a sea of green trees
the long resounding marble corridors
why do
o fair and stately maid, whose eyes
bring me soft song
a blue-black nubian plucking oranges
never in all my life
sleep, gray brother of death
not from the whole wide world