#14apr19am
Smile, or?
(sonnet #MMMMMMMDCCCLXXX)
White. Snow. Sae del'cate that we feel it hence
Within our souls: that hallowed silence they'll
Assure ye is what Sunday's due. T'inhale
Is what we do, half stifled, til I thence
Am lo, some heathen, breaking in fr'intents
And shattring that fine calm as I exhale
My raptures with sheer glee words maught avail
Aught else, Dad chiding me like's sans defense.
So I pass through to breakfast: late. Yes, stir
Him 'spite all that to later say it too,
Whenas the dainty white is heavy--we're
Agreed tis verra wet, and will melt to
Effect ere we're aware, nor linger. Pure
Sweet silence calls unto my soul as't woo.
14Apr19b
Apr 27, 2019
Apr 27, 2019 at 4:23 PM UTC