poet

Charles Wharton Stork

Printer-friendly version

by this poet

poem
How must it be to swim among your kind, 
Dull with the cold and dreary with the dark, 
Enclosed above, beneath, before, behind 
In green uncertainty, from which a shark
At any time may dash 
And doom you like some huge demonic fate 
With lust insatiate?— 
He cuts the water with a seething gash;— 
What use to