Poesy

In hours of doubt or ennui
It is to poetry I turn,
I turn to it and burn and yearn,
‘Till phoenix-like, I’m born anew.

How can the lace of words bring glee?
How does a phrase so tingle me?
These are but patterns on a page,
Dim symbols of a dying age!

But no!  For verses are the song of life
The rhythmic chronicles of thought,
The rhyme of love, the dirge of strife,
The balm of mankind and its lot.

So pass the cup of poesy
Let me draw nectar from its dew
In all the hues of our humanity,
‘Till Phobos-like, I’m born anew.