To Human is Beauty

Beauty so pure figures in fear;

As lust takes your hand in pleasure and desire;

When the heart really listens

To the agony of the ticking clock;

Or in the freedom of a poem

That does not have to rhyme;

When the flame licks the candle wet;

And a farmer's family cries in debt;

When silence is all that has remained

Of a union prolonged in vain;

When the poetess rapes the poem and makes it rhyme;

In a tattered book with stains and tea rings;

In a battleship, broken, run down;

To human is beauty..