For His Father

Sleep in the still, green grass, and when the rain

Pursues the impartial pattern of your breast,

Think of a helpless groping lad again,

The fire beneath his lids, the manifest

Desire upon his body, and the pain

That slides more sure than blood beneath his chest.

Never having been alone, he finds

The skyward-sloping hills too steep to measure

The angle of his heart, the similar winds

Too swift and counterfeit to cool the treasure

Burning behind his brow, and learns how blest

The faded bone to be and the uncoiled vein,

Being secure, and being happiest.

STRUGGLE

Being less of man than elf,

A boy must overcome himself.

Let him flee, or let him fight,