documerica: david hiser… canyonlands national park, utah, 1972 @ usnationalarchives
Photo - Tuscany Interiors, Palazzo Pucci.
Dear friend; poets die early, they always do.
They think of their lives as they would of morning dew,
Solely born for sublime concepts to spell and strew,
Grow no longer youthful, then disappear from view.
That is why you should not love a poet; but if you did
Fall for one’s mind despite what their very nature forbid;
Dear friend, know that amidst all human beauties
Death is one of the poet’s most supreme duties.
But their rhyme shall stay with you as you live,
If such selfishness you are willing to forgive.
See, they are afraid to disobey Poetry
If they were to grow too old for its artistry.
But one day, growing out of grief, you shall sit
Where over tombstones turtledoves sing and flit;
And forever young, a faint voice: ‘Only here
Do I feel your love growing ever near.’
