Selections taken from "Poems Under the Sun," A collection of original poems
In the bleak and unkempt hours of exile,
As if by plague myself of you deprived,
Or confined as one accused of deeds heinous and vile,
I remain aloof from reason and philosophical guide.
For what good are the careworn conclusions of the intellect,
And where is the profit in learned words,
When the heart is marooned like a castaway shipwrecked
Whose forlorn cries are neither heeded nor heard?
But when my mind despairs of deft deduction,
Unable to find there any solace or hope,
I forsake all worldly-wise instruction
And recall the eyes that calm my heart to cope.
And if for now my senses from you estranged by circumstance,
The mere memory of you is well to serve tender deliverance.