True
I rather prefer the
scarce
yet
simple and faint
whispers
where the
quiet
reaches
the quell
as the
still in the storm
rises
till the rains
booned
befall
downward
only to stain
each of every argument born
hearts there
now bared
complain not
and
would never quell
this
that
nor Any
nightingales
sound
nay
Even wing I say
Yet
do tell
Miss daylight
to ponder
her path well
until the end of the oceans crest
bequeath her to sing
hover now
Miss cloud
o’er the line
which
ne’r were to be crossed
by sight
nor lean
nor light
beamed
ne’r any other cost
under said bridge
we two sailed
hearts bared and sore
singed and worn
whilst
the rings of loss
tarred once more
those reckless
hearts of men
were the
to be
drowned
if ffor not
their
own
separate tears
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