Monthly

A tumble of the tongue I wished to lose,
that I have taken for myself anew,
still rising in the quiet of the muse,
serene in melting ice and morning dew.

What curses I have spoken to the few
that I took as my family or friend?
Til machination brought my heart to you,
I wished to stay my first word to the end.

For what short years the world of flesh may lend
have flashed before my eyes, oh dreaded news!
One day a garden shall our four hands tend,
if only my one wish they not refuse.