BY JOHN KEATS
When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,
Before high-pilèd books, in charactery,
Hold like rich garners the full ripened grain;
When I behold, upon the night’s starred face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power

Reaching sanctity
Instilling security
True serenity

I had for my winter evening walk_
No one at all with whom to talk,
But i had the cottages in a row
Up to their shining eyes in snow.

And i thought I had the folk within:
I had the sound of a violin;
I had a glimpse through curtain laces
Of youthful forms and youthful faces.

I had such company outward bound.
I went till there were no cottages found.
I turned and repented, but coming back
I saw no window but that was black.

Being positive
Truly regenerative
Fine restorative

I listen to leaves, then know the sound of falling;
and smelling dew-kissed acorns, I gain the scent of morning;
Waliking brush-grown Logging roads in mid-October, I gain the knowledge of the home-life of squirrels;
Remembering sweet September showers, tears of summer on Autumn's cheeks, my thoughts flow across the pages of unborn volumes, leaking words

C. Lon R. Bruso

My love is like a clear spring day
whose golden sunbeams go their way
then suddenly explode in dew
to sparkle once again like new

Like spotting a quail upon the ground
her young ones following around
with a tiny chirping sound
this bird not sure just where she's bound.

Or spying a small calf just born
a frolicking this sunny morn
crying out with joyful bleat
while running 'round on tireless feet.

Visions In The Fire

I sense a culmination
in close approximation
it brings a shudder
this sensation
of expected expiration
like embers glowing
in the campfire
soon to burn out
like dying note of
polished lyre
I note the winds have changed
carrying smoke
and fallen leaves
with the changing season
my heart grieves
and yearns for
lost days gone by
the ghosts that fly
in the face of
our handful of tomorrows

O, that the child was ne’er conceived at all
nor yet excessive tell his birthing cries
cast not of God, but else God’s nearest ties.
Without he live, none founder ‘neath the pall.

Mankind in bliss and ne’er to ween the crawl,
despairing of lost joy, lamentful sighs
of liberty so failed no hopes disguise
the base unyielding curse of his enthrall.

White Gods of Hell in lapse for he did come!
Pale traitors felled betraying Dire Prince
held bleak aloft in dark the faltered chain.

With the blood of a hundred camels, I wash my fetid hands of this corner of the world.
Dripping puss and raining sweat with arthritic twists are they now knurled.
A thousand fretting troubles thou may juggle in thy abandoned hands,
But my ears are deaf, my eyes drip blood and I am off for other lands.
Cry your bleating, worried moans of lonely isolation.
No longer will I weep and swoon before your angry instigation.
For year after horrid, weighted year and days as dark as the grave,

Then Came The Night