Train passenger

She did not see the endless stands of trees, 
their hollow eyes in shadows by the tracks, 
through once-enchanted regions where the bees 
were sealing clover honey up in wax. 
She did not see the murmuration write 
its fleeting charcoal message on the sky; 
girls diving like kingfishers in the bright, 
reflective river as the train passed by. 
The chapel, listing in eternal rest 
to founder in the soft, decaying earth: 
she did not see. Her thoughts were unexpressed. 
Perhaps she wondered what the world was worth 
while she sat there with neither smile nor frown 
as if a final sun were going down.

Wastes of Wishful thought

Your memory, the flower that I tend, 
my insubstantial relic of desire, 
grows pale despite the time of mind I spend 
to bring alive a remnant of your fire. 
A second's thought, a minute or an hour, 
an age of recall: you are absent still. 
Too much of this has made my mind run sour 
and no philosophy can cure my ill 
for I am lost in wastes of wishful thought 
without a prayer to mend a withered rose. 
The heavy weight of learning comes to naught. 
The world is wearier than I supposed. 
Of glorious Creation who can boast 
it brings us love? It kills what we love most.

Paganini's theme 

It seems to summon demons all around 
with snatches of the devil's private prayers; 
to fill the air with wild, disturbing sound, 
with doctrines dangerous and rebel airs. 
The kick and stamp and dash of heel and toe 
go on until a master stroke, unplanned, 
comes in to soothe the endless welts of woe, 
to put a treasure in the master's hand. 
The eighteenth variation changes all 
as if some jungle balm made from a leaf 
had turned to flowers every cannonball; 
made us forget the price of love is grief; 
put scarlet roses in the armoury; 
turned all our conflicts into harmony.