Too Happy For Poetry

No songs are there that I must sing,
No pressing mournful cry.
Freed of sorrow, heart awing,
Among the clouds I fly.
Deborah this change did bring,
Whose love out-vasts the sky.
A poem's but a little thing
Beside my lady's sigh.

No poems have I left me now:
'Twas sorrow wrote each dirge,
But muse within me needs must bow
To love's uplifting urge.
Where Deborah her hand would give,
No poem shall I write, but live.

—San Francisco
1977