In honor of National Poetry Month in the US, here is one from my T. S. Eliot phase. This phase did not last long, which was good for me, and good for poetry. 

I loved you as my destiny,
hoping to meet infinity
in giving self to self.
Now I am a book upon the shelf.

Human potentiality,
passes into tragedy,
the rending realization
of inhuman limitation:

All things must pass,
slipping through the broken glass,
meeting in conception, hurled,
the moment's destruction of the world.

Man corrupts alone, futilely
enduring, enclosed hopeless virility.

Photo courtesy of marcelabr on Pixabay.com

It is National Poetry Month here in the US, so I thought I would offer one from my favorites:

To a Friend Whose Work Has Come to Nothing

By William Butler Yeats

Now all the truth is out,
Be secret and take defeat
From any brazen throat,
For how can you compete,
Being honor bred, with one
Who were it proved he lies
Were neither shamed in his own
Nor in his neighbors' eyes;
Bred to a harder thing
Than Triumph, turn away
And like a laughing string
Whereon mad fingers play
Amid a place of stone,
Be secret and exult,
Because of all things known
That is most difficult.