The Comeshots; or, Variations on a Theme by Gerrit Lansing
tossed upon his couch
the floating smell of flowers
the moonless-passing night
conscious of the secret dawn
roams with morning thoughts
all fresh from sleeping
the bloom of pure repose
musical with busy bliss
trembled as with excess
and heat was frail, and
every bush was overcome
diffusing light on all the world
as a flower after drenching rain
heard thunder and little after
flame blown backward by a gust
murmuring god, at last he spoke
and smiled as on his favorite isle
in a deep deliberate bliss
the history of a flower in air
liable to breezes and time
rich and purposeless
doomed to be beautiful
to grow, not strive
merely to be sweet
favorite of his rains
and thou indeed lately
cool to all things great
the fierce ingratitude
greenly silent and
cool-growing night
beginning pale with cruelty
full of languor and distaste
dispersed upon the whirling sands
blown seaward on nocturnal blast
doom makes you rich and exquisite
my ecstasy of flinging beams
scattering without intermission
ocean unto ocean flash
tender tasks to steal upon the sea
expected bliss to tossing men
bring on the deeper green
to lure into air
to shine on the unforgiven
with slow sweet surgery
to pity rather than aspire
might indeed provoke invasion
like strange sleep
the sea has striven to say
of other times and lands
of lives in many stars
soul of the early sky
the priest of bloom
the large view of subjected seas
in meditation plunged
with the benignly falling hours
to shine on the rejected
i can but speak
most human words
their sea-weary eyes
no eternity can close
as sobbing runners breast
perfect stillness of the ground
my ashes shall console
lonely antagonists
their death is ever mine
when comes the lonely wail
of sadness we made this world
the sea sighs in our brain
that yearning of the moon
out of a human womb
not eager to forego it
to elude the heaviness
through liquid bliss
i must grow old
fields burned by the setting sun
shall touch his hand
the first and secret kiss
the insane farewell
waning light of eyes
too deeply gazed in
the years that gently bend us
leave behind a wholesome memory
