Laureates
by: E. A. Bartholomew

Were we split or shaken by qualms and quarrels,
Quaked from boughs in bushels no longer cherished;
Were we rocked from resting upon our laurels,
      Laureates perished,

Sense would part from substance, go unattended,
Try to sense itself, but not sensing ever;
Substance lacking sense would be left unmended,
      Parted forever:

Blue apart from sky, for the air was looted;
Red not rock nor flame nor a beating bloodline;
Grassless green, the sod and the seed uprooted;
      Light without sunshine;

Heat without the sun's heavy tide of summer;
Sweet without a tongue nor a licking lapping;
Beat without the blow of the drum, nor drummer
      Steadily clapping.

Could you bear to tear our ownselves asunder?
Rather, let us bend at the laurel lightly,
Quiver little to strain not the bough whereunder
      Fasten us tightly.