There is a boy who in pleasure plays
and friends adores and of folly knows not,
only that now is now and never to be reconciled
with anything greater, anything further
from this, which is a tingle and a tickle
and a laugh keenly shrill, rising rising
only one way to go, like the bell at the end of school
the opening whistle on the court, and he, with no thought
beyond this, grasping at the ball for one more shot
Such is innocence
There is a youth who in pleasure desires
far more than he has ever known beyond illusion,
beyond fantasy, which is the realm of the idiot
a place he knows so well, having girded himself
sultan of a domain that exists only in his own mind
while any world outside of this has length and breadth
on paper alone, scribbled, printed, typed in tiny strokes
belying an arrogance that only the young may enjoy
without the blush of shame that ascends with age
Such is ague
There is a man who in pleasure obsesses
demanding surely more than he ought
greedily touching more than he should
and never knowing where the end must come,
dumbfounded is he by the endlessness of
sensual striving, peak after peak after peak
as if it were only in that, in each trembling yes,
in each pulsing heart, in each throbbing prick
that he could ever be more than he is
Such is ambition
There is a father who in purpose thrives
awed by his own inescapable mortality,
cowed by his unbreakable bonds to the very earth
he fancied to rise above, embracing at last
the resilient limits of his here and now redefined
as the rotting borders of a sullied earthen bed
at the core of which is she – this seed, this blossom,
this mighty tree whose roots and limbs pierce his flesh
with pleasure beyond anything he has ever known
Such is eternity
George Ellington 