Old Rose
Doth if not thrill thee, Poet,
Dead and dust through thy art,
To feel how I press thy singing
Close to my heart?
You tell of a forlorn maiden
So much out of time,
Diminish stance, witless mind
Reft, with thy Rhyme.
Alas, it is so simple to dictate
With prerogative quill of pose,
Upon life’s inflexibilities
Cast upon a wretched ‘Old Rose’
© Harry J Horsman 2011
Copyright © Harry Horsman | Year Posted 2011
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