Love And Make-Do

Short of love all make-do is in vain,
The dialogue dissolves in mud, in mud we lie;
The moment of splendour is the moment of pain.

The tongue we teach ourselves against the grain
Can bear translation if the ash be dry,
For short of love all make-do is in vain.

Ash is the hubris of our fire, the stain
Of what we would not dare to signify.
The moment of splendour is the moment of pain.

And tears will well in eyes that look for gain.
Can hands that clasp the main-chance still deny
That short of love all make-do is in vain?

The world we built turned ruins we retain
In columned newsprint. We should know why
The moment of splendour is the moment of pain.

The meek who fear to burn shall yet be slain
By instruments of bathos; they shall die
Far short of love. All make-do is in vain,
The moment of splendour is the moment of pain.