When I was lonely, I thought of death. <br />When I thought of death I was lonely. <br /> <br />I suppose this error will continue. <br />I shall enter each gray morning <br /> <br />Delighted by frost, which is death, <br />& the trees that stand alone in mist. <br /> <br />When I met my wife I was lonely. <br />Our child in her body is lonely. <br /> <br />I suppose this error will go on & on. <br />Morning I kiss my wife's cold lips, <br /> <br />Nights her body, dripping with mist. <br />This is the error that fascinates. <br /> <br />I suppose you are secretly lonely, <br />Thinking of death, thinking of love. <br /> <br />I'd like, please, to leave on your sill <br />Just one cold flower, whose beauty <br /> <br />Would leave you inconsolable all day. <br />The secret of poetry is cruelty.<br /><br />Jon Anderson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-secret-of-poetry/
