LIFE AND ART
POETRY
Not not when the fever of blood still stays strong,
The heart throbs loud, the eyes are veiled, no less
With passion than with tears, the muse shall bless
The poet to help and and soothe with song
Not then she bids his trembling lips express
The aching gladness, the voluptuous pain.
Life is his poem then; flesh, sense and brain
One full-stringed lyre attuned to happiness.
But when the dream is done, the pulses fail,
The day's illusion, with the day's sunset,
He, lonely in the twilight, sees the pale
Divine peacemaker, featured like regret
Enter and clasp his hand and kiss his brow
then his lips hope to sing... as mine does.
Notes
This is my entry for day 88 of a 100 days of poetry challenge organized by 
https://discordapp.com/invite/hyfYQ9P
