I will love the light for it shows me the way, yet I will endure the darkness for it shows me the stars. — Og Mandino

Albert Frank Moritz (born April 15, 1947) is a United States-born Canadian poet, teacher, and scholar.

Born in Niles, Ohio, Moritz was educated at Marquette University. Since 1975, he has made his home in Toronto, Ontario where he has worked variously as an advertising copywriter and executive, editor, publisher, and university professor. His poetry has been honored with a 1990 Guggenheim Fellowship, inclusion in the Princeton Series of Contemporary Poets, and numerous other awards. He currently teaches at Victoria College in the University of Toronto.

He was the winner of the ReLit Award for poetry in 2005 for Night Street Repairs, the Griffin Poetry Prize in 2009 for The Sentinel, and the Raymond Souster Award in 2013 for The New Measures. He is a three-time nominee for the Governor General’s Award for English-language poetry, receiving nominations at the 2000 Governor General’s Awards for Rest on the Flight into Egypt, at the 2008 Governor General’s Awards for The Sentinel, and at the 2012 Governor General’s Awards for The New Measures.

In 2019, Moritz was named as the new Poet Laureate of Toronto.

A. F. Moritz

He glanced around to check if the treacherous gods
had really given him the reward promised for his accomplished song
and there she was, Eurydice restored, perfectly naked and fleshed
in her rhyming body again, the upper and lower smiles and eyes,
the line of mouth-sternum-navel-cleft, the chime of breasts and hips
and of the two knees, the feet, the toes, and that expression
of an unimaginable intelligence that yoked all these with a skill
she herself had forgotten the learning of: there she was, with him
                  once more
just for an instant as she vanished. And then he heard her from
the invisible veil, absence: a shrill and batlike but lexical indictment.
Why had he violated the divine command, why, when he had seized
all song to himself and robbed her of power to open her own
It grew in volume and now seemed to spew from an insane old
                  mother with one breast
hanging like a huge withered testicle from a rent in her weathered
who was being watched by a tall woman, copper-helmet-coiffed,
                  richly suited in salmon color,
a mythical allusion, since salmon were long extinct in the bays and
                rivers here:
songs never brought them anymore. The young restrained breasts
                and the old free one
oppressed him equally and he went to live among men, waiting for
                the crazy
and the competent to join forces and come for him with their
Orpheus listened patiently to my poem and when it quieted he said
                  to me:
That wasn’t it at all. I sang outward from my face to blue spaces
                  between clouds,
to fern fronds, and men and women sipped my song as you drink
                   from a stream going by.
What I sang is lost in time, you don’t know what it was, all you have
                  is your own
old stories about me. And if women tore me into pieces, maybe that
                  only signifies
each one keeps part of my body, which is melody among visible