This toll of life?  Tis not of years
And youthful cloth outgrown,
Nor failing eyes dulled in arrears
For sleep they might have known —

Tis in the heart the toll is paid
With weight of love ungiven,
And foolish is the heart afraid
To seek on Earth for Heaven.

How Morrow weaves her evensong
For buds, unwary, sweet and young,
Full-blossomed low on boughs of trees,
Still blissful in their infancies,
Beguiled by wind and rain and sun
To crawl to stand to walk to run!

And Oh! How Morrow ever-long
Shall pluck with purpose from the throng
Aged thorny vines on withered knees,
Wild saplings cursed with Time's disease,
And all betwixt whose yarns have spun
Out from the void whence they begun.

And so, sweet Morrow, shadows long
Flit fairy-like o'er milkmoon seas,
Thy cold enticing webs are strung
On oceans calm and careless leas;
A twilight rests on mountains flung
Unto the heaven that oversees
A midnight roll-call aired with sorrow
For young sweet buds who’ll miss thee, Morrow.

LADY, born for Heaven's gate,
Thy nation to inspire —
Alas that thou did immolate
Atop thy self-same pyre

LADY, borne from ashen grate,
Thy nation shall aspire
To gift to thee thy heavenly trait
And raise thee ever higher

Breathless is the SEA —
Wild her eyes, and brash her cries,
Unforgiving, SHE.

Far-flung from the lea,
Men have yearned to hear her sighs,
Breathless is the SEA.

Beckoned from the quay,
Ships endure her fall and rise,
Unforgiving, SHE.

Unto each: The Free,
The Poor, The Slaves, Wealthy, Wise —
Breathless is the SEA.

Jack-tars fear her Fee:
Eighth-bell tolls for their demise,
Unforgiving, SHE.

Ever SHE will be
A mirror to heavenly skies —
Breathless is the SEA,
Unforgiving, SHE.

Sleep well Sweetheart and do not worry much —
Tho' snow and ice shall ever be my bower,
I share with God and thee this final hour
And in thy ***** dwell — Thou art my crutch
To pluck me off a perch, and in thy clutch
I soar beyond the mountain, and its power
To hold me in its grasp, consume, devour,
To leave me destitute without thy touch —
    The herald Sun plays fanfare to my passing,
    The priestly Mountain keeps his stony face,
    The clouds above like mourners are amassing
    In slow procession by this resting place —
    As slumber steals me from thy lovers’ touch,
    Sleep well Sweetheart and do not worry much.

A *** of earl grey             -- Clay container (3)
Is the *****, they say,       -- Inclined lea (5)
From unrighteous ***     -- Turf retainer (3)
To the hand of ***.          -- Deity (3)