In That Which Lies Beyond Our Inmost Point Poem by James Whitworth

In that which lies beyond our inmost point,
We hold the rose between its thorn and bloom;
A token of a love to live the day
We lay it lengthwise on this loved one’s tomb.

Rescued from your phantomed palace of print,
The cautious prayer for which you always paid;
I thread a needle through those bloodied years
And, stitch-by-stitch, I fashion them to fade.

Shall we in lovers’ hearts as truth anoint,
With substance from which swollen spring is poured,
These riches excavated from our wounds
And strike the beggar’s breast with sheath-freed sword.

To love is to labour; to labour, love.
Then whosoever seeks to shun such choice,
Let not my name lie loose between their lips,
But linger long upon your violet voice.