This poet parasite of grief
Lives on the falling, leaf by leaf,
Of life’s illusion, glad to see
The nakedness of misery.
He probes his pen deep down within,
To make a sonnet of a sin.
A Realist, revealing less
Life’s beauty than its bitterness.
Yet purer eyes than his have seen
Truth in these fields of living green,
And truer hearts than his have trod
White ways of wonder up to God.
Lord, touch my lips that I may sing
The music of men’s hallowing.
Touch Thou my soul that I may know
Life’s worth more real than its woe.
‘In the name of reality many writers are indulging in shabby forms of make-believe, and are reducing all reality to ashes.’ Alfred Noyes (1880-1958).