A WASTE OF SHAME

Let it be thought, at least, that I can read
with open lids: a body is not braille.
Yes, give the blind their flower-vase, and feed
two senses: but - are flowers dark, or pale?
Let sensuous alabaster lead the hand
through joy: but - how shall fingers pierce the veil
of the uncolour of night's eyeless land?
Its glory, not a curtain, clothed the Grail.

I have kept roses pressed within a book,
memorial gifts: what could they do but die?
That is a love at which one does not look.
And, when the love itself was sour and dry,
have let them burn, a symbol I mistook,
that should have once made happy lip and eye.