poetry post

[im_nobody]

I gave myself to him,
And took himself for pay.
The solemn contract of a life
Was ratified this way.

The wealth might disappoint,
Myself a poorer prove
Than this great purchase suspect;
The daily own of Love

Depreciates the vision;
But, till the merchant buy,
Still fable, in the isles of spice,
The subtle cargoes lie.

At least, 'tis mutual risk-
Some found it mutual gain;
Sweet debt of Life,- each night to owe;
Insolvent, every noon.

---

One bright and plucked from billowing boughs of May,
Its fellow round, born ripe from early spring.
Such juicy sections in the orange rind lay,
A crisp bite in the other freshness brings.
So different, they: innately special treats
Who place themselves so meekly in my bowl
And on my table sit, abiding, sweet
Anticipate the choice inside my soul.
Should I descend upon the orange there?
Shall I devour piece by luscious piece?
Or slice the skin and fleshy paleness bare
Of the food that might my hunger cease?
Oh, to choose and slight a fruit so dear -
So singular is this: my central fear.