The mighty Atlas, father of those seven sisters,
Bears the weight of heaven on his broad shoulders.
And even one of the brothers three, lives eternal;
In Chaos realms, Tartarus' black abyss, in which
No soul returns, to gaze upon life's light once more.
Although, forgive me, I lie; a few, a few selected,
Have returned from amidst heavy woe, pushing
Down their sorrows. Orpheus ventured,
With sweet song, motherly ordained and with divine,
Unrivalled skill on his lyre, seduced Hades himself.
I too, challenge his great powers; and with her skirt
Flapping with speed, ride on Auroras saffron chariot,
Cooking the sky's dark covering wings, to a baking red,
While the sun gallops up, stampeding behind our cart.
I play, not keen, to act the fool, and lay these pale ivy
Laments in front, which my lips have yet not touched.
I place you in the centre, forests following, clear streams
Flowing as crystals sway on its surface; and yet,
I have not put them to my lips; but keep them by.
I praise not this, but sing, because together we sit
On this soft green grass; now the woods are leafing,
Now the year is at its loveliest, the cheeky girl
Pelts me with apples. Presents are laid up for my Emily,
I myself have observed where doves make their nests.
I'll pick ten apples, picked from a woodland tree,
And for you, I'll pick ten more tomorrow.
You breezes waft a word or two to the gods' ears
And to my pure white seraphim, for her to hear.
I love my angel most of all, for when I left,
She wept and said ‘So long, love, so long.'
Wolves are sad for the folds, rain for the crops,
Gales for the trees, and Emily, me for you.
I love my muse, let him who loves you share your paradise.
Let honey flow from him, let roses blossom
From his pores, to pick flowers and earth born strawberries,
To dip you, in springs of tears myself. My love is ruinous
And the sky extends no wider than my heart.
Say, in what lands the flowers inscribe your name,
The name of goddesses; for who fears the sweet,
Or feels the bitterness of love; let them drink their fill.

That very quiet time, yet neither day nor longer night,
Just before those mighty steeds are yoked;
Not have they stretched their necks or shook their manes,
Nor struck the sky with either eager hoof,
A mild time when the saffron queen leaves her lovers bed,
When she kisses bye his grey bearded cheek,
Like every day to return soon to rest in his arms except once;
For that day, a command reached her pretty ears,
And the words humming carrying with it a gentle breeze,
Whispering her marriage bed may remain warm.
Oh! For that time to come again, when I may be blessed,
No reddening sky would appear on to my eyes,
Nor would I be adorned with the birdcalls of the morning,
And the stars would stay on their sighted paths,
And the bright torch, her white chariot may hover awhile.

Why I would want this, dear reader, you ask.
Why would a man ever not wish the land to bathe in colour?
To not feel warmth of Apollo's light on his face,
Shrouded by damp night and surrounded by her gloomy wings?
My answer comes from that little winged boy.
From a time when his divine mother herself rose out of the foam,
Gently squeezing the water from out her hair,
A time when with a soft white hand and her tender embrace,
Made her love eternal with her young hunter:
As of from that day and the span of ten lunar months lapsed,
This naked little boy, quiver and bow to match,
With ordained skill has taut his string many a time to his chest,
And his whistling arrow has never missed its target.

For it is with love then; I bid not the amber glow from the east,
Nor the oriental globe to ascend before me.
If the burning disc of heavenly light rises a new in the sky,
I for one can never hide on my face my sorrow.
My head droops and with added weight of woe my shoulders,
Like the heavy rains that cause leaf to slump;
Fall towards the ground, because it is at this time that I know,
That I must leave my utmost joy behind me again.
Oh **** me! Aye, for any of my prayers to be duly answered,
For earths eyelid to be closed and shut tight,
For me to hold her towards me and to hear her heart beat,
To give me this one prolonged night with my love.

What would I do? Many have laid curses on the pointed shaft,
That straight arrowhead which struck them pure,
And many have spat at the ground their accursed feet walk on;
Wild love has never been a very gentle creature.
She will savagely swim in your blood and make it boil red,
Cause war with death in heated misunderstanding,
Make women pull their hair and beat their chest with moans,
And make men stream tears down their cheeks.

What can I do? Even the greatest lovers are left with woe,
Do I content myself with her blush as I kiss her?
Leave unhappy and imprint a smile on my face that's dishonest,
And hug her falsely with lack of my true wants?
Oh **** me! Grant me this one night with my sweet delight,
Stay your golden chariot sire, as you did before,
So I may savour her not unlike you when you gazed your love,
Caressing your desire and sending her to the stars.
Oh! To have within me powers to control those three sisters;
Those talented three in which they create life's path,
With sped fast supple fingers, they do spin their wheel around.
The ability to weave and thread as if like they do,
I would entwine my thread with yours, fuse together our weave,
And with Fate forever cross mine with your own.

Ta-whit Ta-whoo
Ta-whit Ta-whay
The owl looks down the rabbit's way
Rabbits are quick
And for life they'd better run.
For thy earth revolves eternal,
Till all deeds are done.

Ta-whit Ta-whoo
Ta-whit Ta-whay
That figure on the branch seems to say
The night is minus
Feel it? Jack prepared to bite.
Shroud cloaked of coldness
Envelops my presence tonight.

Ta-whit Ta-whoo
Ta-whit Ta-whay
Oh joy, it's moved, it wants to play
Where has it gone?
That figure by the tree doth stand.
Wait! I know that touch,
Its gentle earth's death-hand.

Ta-whit Ta-whoo
Ta-whit Ta-whay
The owl cursed me, Ill not see another day
He ushers me to the tree
I feel my stale last breath has come.
Knock-knock! Awake! In bed?
Oh mercy, how-dumb!

Swirling circles, on this burgundy sheet,
Wondering true of why false people I meet.
Moving stars rotate high around this sphere,
Scared of words unspoken, those spoken words to fear.

Amber cool mixing through minds not known,
Plastic smile as wrong, as wrong as death's ring tone,
Men and women to out do, try to out last the other,
Cheap attire brought last once, from a forgotten lover.

Chattering as loud, as squawking crows, over death,
Take your hand, squeezing, your stale last breath,
To endure nights shroud, a night as many as this,
Stay at home, you say maybe, give a night like this amiss.

Hey my Suffolk angel,
Eyes of a dreamy hue,
Haven't heard off you for ages,
Thinkin' of you too true.

As I go through the movin' stages,
Wantin' to read my pages,
Can't bare these silent phases,
Where is my ‘how do you do'?

Oh no! you're not forgettin',
Our laughin' and our walkin'?
Please remember our fun talkin',
And the kisses I laid on you.

So how has been your week?
Is the weather still so bleak?
Can't tell you how I still seek,
Your hug my sweet honeydew.

I'll leave this rhyme I'm ‘scribing,
The gods I am a bribing,
‘Cause my heart is all a sighing,
With this song my tongue a-grew!

Have a good day ‘my dove Emily',
Kind hellos from ‘your Lee-Bee',
Awaitin' the time when I see thee,
You know I would die for you.

I hear the birds a tweet,
Dreaming of you so sweet,
From top to your delicate feet,
A more beautiful vision than any I knew,
Did you fall from the sky so blue?
I truly do adore you

Strength in this green abyss my poet give me,
Endurin' stale air mashed with ticks of time
Who still tombed beneath my mind with plea,
Beg, release, carry thee through field's sublime.
As if floatin' high on a cloud cushion'd white
Starrin' with hoverin' gulls cupp'd on gentle breeze hands,
Spreadin' views of meadows lush over a dreaméd sight,
To see this myself to vision myself over glorious lands.
The work of the poet not unlike scolded skin to turn red,
Touch softly the area around ruby's tender heat'd glow,
Takes my tedium with magic guile from out my head,
Soothes the burn with lotion, easin' my throbbing sorrow.
I throw, with all lovin' intent a polite gesture to thee,
For this my poet and for this throw one back to me.

Statius, sweet poet, accompany by my side,
While I muse quietly over my changeless love;
Come walk with me closely, matching with slow stride,
In search, for I search in vain, for my dove.
I curse just my luck, cause on this mild day,
She works, and her pretty face, seem miles away.

Past hours of recent weeks, Statius, I do tell,
Of how tender lips have spoken to mine own,
And here I sit, with you great poet, in the sunbathed Bell;
My ears have made my heart joyous welcoming her lovely tone.
So, my Emily, hear this tune, and for sure, truly do know;
That you are missed by me and my friend, much more than
My tune could ever show.