No proper poet would do this

No proper poet would do this
and keeps a poem waiting
a drying pen and longing sheets
and keeps himself straying.


No pouring in the midnight lamp
and sleeps thick snoring
dreaming morrow's work in camp
 and thinks of Arabs boring.

Don't Ask Me

What state of heart is this
How this association does it make
See in and let go your heart
In moistened eyes and you can see
And sometimes in your smiles
you want to know what you see
How fretful a moth is and as it glows
But why is fretful and why it glows
If you want to know
Then be in that glow and then you see
And don’t ask me what my love does keep
What it keeps and what it conceals
A flame that it is in the deep
A flame in my heart and is concealed
Don’t ask me what my love does keep
Coloring in the bloods oh I have
from my heart and of my dreams
I have graced all deserted springs
Ah! In their forlorn etiquettes
Don’t ask me what my love does keep
Is being tried to be chafed away
By all, and salvaging it me alone
enwrapped in the heart and soul
is this treasure and is forever to keep
It endures the affliction, it sees you not
I ignore and I forget all the else
Don’t ask me what my love does keep
Don’t ask me……..