Passion Spent
It was a blossom cradled by a blinding sheen,
Though bold on wings of night it fled
Much swifter than what Nature might have felt or seen;
My heart sank deep as if of lead.
It was and wasn’t, for it may have lived or died.
What counted then was that it would
Survive in me, where letters could have wept or sighed,
Eternal in their haunting mood.
Unbuilt by storms and then restored to heights by love,
It surged and trebled like a song
More tender than the sun and whiter than a dove
Whose graces timid hopes prolong.
Find my poems and published poetry volumes at www.eton-langford.com
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