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The Difference


Most men—and I am not most men, but still

I have to tip my hat to what in them

Abides in me—most men give up romance

At some point.  If they haven't learned to dance

Before they reach my age they never will.

The rose, such as it is, is off the stem,

But not the thorns.  The thorns are what they were,

And love is crowded round with hurtful things.

What's in the thicket loses its allure.

Most men are sleeping when the night-bird sings.

I'm just the same.  What most men know I'd learn,

Except I know a rose whose flame I'm sure

Will never fade, and that is why I burn.


Alfred Nicol



© 2000 Alfred Nicol; originally printed in Edge City
.  Reprinted by permission of the author.

Background by
Cranky Angel

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