Peter S. Quinn Poems

All things must pass what of day is here born,
First it gives pleasure and then it is gone;
Like a glow from dawn's new rising pylon,
Light of the day that to dark is forworn.
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Love is like an angel that comes and goes,
Sweetly flowered of the emotions past;
Summer songs and autumn that can't last,
Everything that in fable memory grows.
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Days are going nowhere,
Immortal at last;
Stillness is here and there,
Memories of past.
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Love's all in the after hours I assume,
Like beautiful inspiring mood from inside,
The milder descending ingrowing bloom
That within the roots of the heart will hide;
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River-ribbon pathways,
With chisel mountains.

Through long dark curves,
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You and I
Too far away,
Like the sky
Or night and day;
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Is there a cloud today
In the songs ahead,
Is there a darkish play
In the colorful bled;
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Everywhere I go,
There is a time to care;
You and I know,
What we both can share.
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Dwell on time and yellow falls on earth leaves,
As nothing here shall be for eternity;
Man can not be lost in boredom or grieves,
For then his pleasures never become free.
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Question is, if time is meaningful and
Whether coming days are equal in their hour;
They both are strict and mindful in their power,
For they run fast or slow, though some will strand.
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