The Language Of The Eyes Poem by John E Marks

These bloody dead

That debt we owe,

Abide with me,

Don't let me go.



That mocking voice,

These clever folk

Display their wit

In the cutting joke.



This tree that grew

These shady nooks

This dappled sunlight

These gilded brooks.



For men may come to worse than dust

When love of self is breach of trust:



A moment's ornament means more to me

Than reams and reams of your philosophy.