They say there
are words to everywhere,
But I know somewhere where no word goes.
The thoughts are
swifter than Arab horses
Or slow as the oxen and their wain.
They have beaten
a pathway deeper down
Than the track of the Celt beyond the farms.
Love and death
are the wayside flowers—
The old rose and the loving poppy.
Them I have
trampled over the bank
To the thicket between and what grows there.
Here from my eyes
let the fire speak....
Though they laugh
at me and Peg of the Brook,
Glum John and his little brother.
©Copyright 2010 by The Estate of Hyam Plutzik. All