David Given Schwarm

      Thy spirit’s sister, the lorn nightingale       Mourns not her mate with such melodious pain;       Not so the eagle, who like thee could scale       Heaven, and could nourish in the sun’s domain       Her mighty youth with morning, doth complain,       Soaring and screaming round her empty nest,       As Albion wails for thee: the curse of Cain       Light…

I remember thinking that this idea of children-colors had been lifted by authors Clare Quilty and Vivian Darkbloom from a passage in James Joyce, and that two of the colors were quite exasperatingly lovely—Orange who kept fidgeting all the time, and Emerald who, when her eyes got used to the pitch-black pit where we all…

And I thought to myself how those fast little articles forget everything, everything, while we, old lovers, treasure every inch of their nymphancy

Grief made the young Spring wild, and she threw down Her kindling buds, as if she Autumn were, And will no more reply to winds or fountains, Or amorous birds perch’d on the young green spray, Or herdsman’s horn, or bell at closing day; Since she can mimic not his lips, more dear Than those…