Yea, Though I Walk
If I could lose this loss
By stealth or wealth or any way...
If raging, sounding winds could toss
At end of day,
This heavy void as if there were no cost,
Then I would count none lost.
But there is so much more to this:
I, miser, clutch at my pathos;
Becomes the Desert That I Cannot Cross.
In Valley I am lost;
The blowing sands obscure my view.
The hole I hoard becomes my cross --
I worship now the sorrow that was you.
This form poem was suggested by a Dante Gabriel Rossetti poem and encouraged by Imaginary Gardens for Real Toads on December 1. I've been wandering through this particular desert for a week or so. Better late than never...I think!