The Poetry Bush

All the world thinks they have complicated men,
but I have the worst of them all
And from that dear conflict there springs forth
a bush; nettled, entangled and tall
Choking off sky with a bower of thorns,
foot with a mesh-net of weed;
And yet through the wild-boughs, the blue sky adorns
and nestled in rough soil's a seed.


And there on that wild bush
blooms three, four and twelve
bright crimson blossoms of lore,
Poinsettias of blood, sweet-smelling of pain,
Big beautiful facefuls of gore
with burnt yellow hearts each harsh like a sun
and knowledge like honey stored deep
to which thoughts oft flit and collect one by one,
An inkling in drops for to keep-



So here 'neath the poetry bush do I lie
and watch the red blooms burst, and wonder,
O how did a man more complex far than I,
I find?- Which rents the sky more asunder:
I, the blue lighting? ,or the slow-growing thunder.