Thursday, March 10, 2011

Poem

Hope

Old sprit, in and beyond me,
keep, and extend me. Amid strangers,
friends, great trees and big seas breaking,
let love move me. Let me hear the whole music,
see clear, reach deep. Open me to find due words,
that I may shape them to ploughshares of my own making.
After such luck, however late, give me to give to
the oldest dance. . . . Then to good sleep,
and — if it happens — glad waking.

-Phlip Booth

1 comment:

writerslondon said...

a nice poem - and skilled use of adjectives. Whitman-like use of adjectives. Whitman is by my bed btw

:D