Of stressed out note my beating pulse no heart
can afford in timeless tide
this unfathomable sea knows no bounds
at midnight lease this world all woe
unto my shipwrecked dreams of days that are gone
under the Archangel's brow!
needest not in nurslings of immortality
e'ery flower upon a barren heath,
still wed to my thought thy age-old love:
you first set ablaze the sun at my do'r
of rosemary garden,
hung aloft the ghastly night I still behold
such darling buds of may in my bed of crimson joy,
of seventy winters have thy November,
at Matilda's farm thy iron car
against a pastoral background not a word,
not a word can e'er illumine
in the mellowing spring a canopy of a hut,
of revealed looks, our little john, by the late evening,
that day of Christmas eve darkly lit in thy abode;
cow's shed of weasel hat on knees in ruffled feathers,
has a hold me height in heavens high bower,
small minions that arise in my mind upon the sand dunes.
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Date Created: Saturday, July 09,2016 6: 05: 43 PM
* Title Revised from A Pitcher To A Pitcher Pine Forest To A Billy-Tea House To A Woodcutter in the Pine Forest
* 1 day _egg/PS-2/piano/10/birds/tel