Who’s That Knocking?

So who’s that knocking on sweet Sue’s front door?
She locked it just in time – it seems to her –
And now she’s hiding on her kitchen floor,
Behind a kitchen chair, her brain a blur.
“So who’s that knocking?” now she asks again –
“This knocking just won’t stop, and breaks my head;
It shatters every part of my poor brain,
And if it doesn’t stop, I’ll soon be dead.”
“So who’s that knocking, who’s that knocking here?
Now if you answer you will soon find out,
For I will breathe such sweetness in your ear:
The sweetest treats are what I’m all about.”
So who was knocking, promising such sweets?
It’s he who's taken now the sweeter treats.

Points

And when I see you there – you point my way –
I walk towards you where you waiting stand,
Although I know that you will soon today
Move me towards another point of land.
And though I know that you behind me reach
And there you’ve stood before me in the past,
And that you vanish when I near you, each
New time’s as fresh to me as was the last.
So stand away, my dear, and I’ll be there,
Approaching as you steer my daily course,
And step on step again I walk aware
That in you glows my beacon and that force
That through the waking day draws me towards
Those points where light, life, love mark their accords.   

This Last Turn of Our Mind

He sold his soul and did not ask a thing –

Brave Faust, I know him well – inside

The solaces that metaphysics bring,

We live together, talk, turn, steep and hide.

“Perhaps some tea,” I say to him betimes;

“Lapsang souchong,” he smokily suggests;

“It’s ten o’clock,” repeat the mantel’s chimes;

“So not yet twelve,” time equally protests.

“More talk perhaps, one last investigation

Of this turned that, the world does turn, you know;”

“From me you’ll get to that no protestation –

What will it do without us when we go?”

We sold our souls, and now we leave behind,

At twelve o’clock, this last turn of our mind.