These Gifts Of Words

These gifts of words are all I have to give,
Low presents they, not ribboned, nor with bows.
Yet are they parts of every virtue that I live,
And take not bribes of money for fake shows.
I make them wings and send them soaring high,
Or trudge them, slow, full, grumpy with bean pie.
They skitter scatter skit as light as leaves,
Or, solemn, groan along as one who grieves.
For majesty, there’s grand heroic ire,
That beats down blocks of walls to man’s desire,
Hurling this way, that, most hugest stones
Till all that’s left is evil’s just broke bones.
For simple beauty’s lip there’s none but this:
A singing, perfect song and perfect kiss.

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