Those words which should be said are hard to find
In times when pent emotions run on high —
Content to mimic myths of ancient kind
As if fair Thisbe, parting with a sigh.
The voice of Time howls through these agèd halls
Bemoaning all that Past has pushed aside,
Its sadden’d sighs hang on each voice that calls
To Future, but in spite, had chose to hide.
Her golden tresses, crafted filigree,
So delicate, imagined, seldom seen,
For Beauty hides her face. This rarity;
Her smile, her eyes, adorn mine filigrene.
Across thy nose, a spray of freckles found.
Why would the Maker tarnish such a sight
As yours? You think to hide and pan the ground,
And only raise your eyes within the night.
If Life should ever close her knowing eyes;
Would Death erase her codicil of light?
Could Life give o’r to Death in silent cries
Of helplessness — as day becomes the night.
Behold! The fields are flushed with color red!
Methinks not blood, but blood it may well be.
Behold the sight! Nay turn my head instead,
Avert mine eyes, this travesty I see.
When fourteen lines are used to write a verse,
These fourteen lines, fond mem’ries oft recall —
Just fourteen lines? You ask. Well what is worse,
To use these fourteen lines or none at all?