Her

I see her not dispirited, not weak, but well, remembering that she has seen dark times before, indeed with a kind of instinct that she sees a little better in a cloudy day.

The cup of life

is sweetness at the brim --
the flavor is impaired as we drink deeper,
and the dregs are made bitter that we may not struggle when it is taken from our lips.

It's still National Poetry Month...

Sooner or later that which is now life shall be poetry,

and every fair and manly trait shall add a richer strain to the song.

I was no longer brave;

My avarice cooled,
like lust in the chill of the grave.

-- Hamatreya