The Poetess of Heptonstall
This high, half-hidden, churchyard
Where coldness and rain find a home
And the nightfall is welcomed at twilight's end.
The lament of the deafened, defining the dusk,
And complecting its blanket, a chilled shielding shroud ~
A poet lies sleeping alone in her cot.
But verses are silently wrested away
Brilliantly noiseless not rhyming nor free:
And how the wind whistles here all about.
Then, strangely, disturbing the shadowless eve
A voice, a beseeching, may softly be heard.
O' Sylvia, Sylvia, why for art thou here?
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
