"bewail" poems
Night is but a word for the darkness that roams with men and the lands.
The song of the winds sparkling with a woman's tears unshed.
His blanket drapes her in the pitch of night.
A cure basks within the lady's eye.
Salt water.
The tears, made salty by the churning sea.
Cry the river dry.
Bewail until all is nigh.
The night is coming.
The darkness foretold.
Beware the madness
with a daggers fine edge.
Night may be just a word.
But the wickedness is true within man's might.
The sun will rise to cleanse the lands.
Daylight breaks and the word changes.
The faith of the worshipers dancing amongst the shining vivid rays.
The danger has passed.
Be still her fleeting heart.
But be wary,
dear maiden of mine.
For the darkness of the night will soon befall again.
Apr 8, 2014
Apr 8, 2014 at 1:35 AM UTC
Rhyme, the rack of finest wits,
That expresseth but by fits
True conceit,
Spoiling senses of their treasure,
Cozening judgment with a measure,
But false weight;
Wresting words from their true calling,
Propping verse for fear of falling
To the ground;
Jointing syllabes, drowning letters,
Fast'ning vowels as with fetters
They were bound!
Soon as lazy thou wert known,
All good poetry hence was flown,
And art banish'd.
For a thousand years together
All Parnassus' green did wither,
And wit vanish'd.
Pegasus did fly away,
At the wells no Muse did stay,
But bewail'd
So to see the fountain dry,
And Apollo's music die,
All light failed!
Starveling rhymes did fill the stage;
Not a poet in an age
Worth crowning;
Not a work deserving bays,
Not a line deserving praise,
Pallas frowning;
Greek was free from rhyme's infection,
Happy Greek by this protection
Was not spoiled.
Whilst the Latin, queen of tongues,
Is not yet free from rhyme's wrongs,
But rests foiled.
Scarce the hill again doth flourish,
Scarce the world a wit doth nourish
To restore
Phœbus to his crown again,
And the Muses to their brain,
As before.
****** languages that want
Words and sweetness, and be scant
Of true measure,
Tyrant rhyme hath so abused,
That they long since have refused
Other cæsure.
He that first invented thee,
May his joints tormented be,
Cramp'd forever.
Still may syllabes jar with time,
Still may reason war with rhyme,
Resting never.
May his sense when it would meet
The cold tumor in his feet,
Grow unsounder;
And his title be long fool,
That in rearing such a school
Was the founder.
3k
You don’t have to wave your country’s flag;
Nor do you have to boast and brag
That yours is the best country on earth—
Whether or not it’s the land of your birth—
To be a patriot.
There’s no need to brandish your weapons to show
That you have your rights that you’ll never forgo;
Nor do you have to copy the ones
Who feel the need for an arsenal of guns
To be a patriot.
You don’t have to heed everything you are told,
Fear seeking truths that your leaders withhold,
Or forget that in your laws there’s a reason
That public dissent’s not the same thing as treason
To be a patriot.
You don’t have to feel that the government is right
To force young men and women to fight
In wars that profit the War Machine--
And which you in your heart know are obscene--
To be a patriot.
There’s no need to always bewail and prate
On the separation of church and state
Or let the troublemakers upset you
By saying the government’s out to get you
To prove you’re a patriot.
But caring about the poor and the needy;
Wanting to have, without being greedy;
Feeling concern for the rights of ALL;
And helping others up when they fall:
That's being a patriot!
- by Bob B
Oct 4, 2016
Oct 4, 2016 at 3:19 PM UTC
Arise then...women of this day!
Arise, all women who have hearts!
Whether your baptism be of water or of tears!
Say firmly:
"We will not have questions answered by irrelevant agencies,
Our husbands will not come to us, reeking with carnage,
For caresses and applause.
Our sons shall not be taken from us to unlearn
All that we have been able to teach them of charity, mercy and patience.
We, the women of one country,
Will be too tender of those of another country
To allow our sons to be trained to injure theirs."
From the voice of a devastated Earth a voice goes up with
Our own. It says: "Disarm! Disarm!
The sword of ****** is not the balance of justice."
Blood does not wipe our dishonor,
Nor violence indicate possession.
As men have often forsaken the plough and the anvil
At the summons of war,
Let women now leave all that may be left of home
For a great and earnest day of counsel.
Let them meet first, as women, to bewail and commemorate the dead.
Let them solemnly take counsel with each other as to the means
Whereby the great human family can live in peace...
Each bearing after his own time the sacred impress, not of Caesar,
But of God -
In the name of womanhood and humanity, I earnestly ask
That a general congress of women without limit of nationality,
May be appointed and held at someplace deemed most convenient
And the earliest period consistent with its objects,
To promote the alliance of the different nationalities,
The amicable settlement of international questions,
The great and general interests of peace.
2.7k
My dear old father,
who always loved me the same;
my dear old father I lament
who died the day before yesterday, just before dawn.
Jesus Christ, it is my daily effort
to observe the precepts
of Thy most holy church in all my acts,
in all words, in all thoughts.
And all those who renounce Thee
I shun.-- But now I lament;
I bewail, Christ, for my father
although he was -- a horrible thing to say --
a priest at the accursed Serapeum.
2.3k
Sound the deep waters:--
Who shall sound that deep?--
Too short the plummet,
And the watchmen sleep.
Some dream of effort
Up a toilsome steep;
Some dream of pasture grounds
For harmless sheep.
White shapes flit to and fro
From mast to mast;
They feel the distant tempest
That nears them fast:
Great rocks are straight ahead,
Great shoals not past;
They shout to one another
Upon the blast.
O, soft the streams drop music
Between the hills,
And musical the birds' nests
Beside those rills:
The nests are types of home
Love-hidden from ills,
The nests are types of spirits
Love-music fills.
So dream the sleepers,
Each man in his place;
The lightning shows the smile
Upon each face:
The ship is driving, driving,
It drives apace:
And sleepers smile, and spirits
Bewail their case.
The lightning glares and reddens
Across the skies;
It seems but sunset
To those sleeping eyes.
When did the sun go down
On such a wise?
From such a sunset
When shall day arise?
"Wake," call the spirits:
But to heedless ears;
They have forgotten sorrows
And hopes and fears;
They have forgotten perils
And smiles and tears;
Their dream has held them long,
Long years and years.
"Wake," call the spirits again:
But it would take
A louder summons
To bid them awake.
Some dream of pleasure
For another's sake;
Some dream, forgetful
Of a lifelong ache.
One by one slowly,
Ah, how sad and slow!
Wailing and praying
The spirits rise and go:
Clear stainless spirits,
White,--as white as snow;
Pale spirits, wailing
For an overthrow.
One by one flitting,
Like a mournful bird
Whose song is tired at last
For no mate heard.
The loving voice is silent,
The useless word;
One by one flitting,
Sick with hope deferred.
Driving and driving,
The ship drives amain:
While swift from mast to mast
Shapes flit again,
Flit silent as the silence
Where men lie slain;
Their shadow cast upon the sails
Is like a stain.
No voice to call the sleepers,
No hand to raise:
They sleep to death in dreaming
Of length of days.
Vanity of vanities,
The Preacher says:
Vanity is the end
Of all their ways.
2.3k
If this vast azure emptiness can prove
An aghast endless vacuum measure
Take it for granted, research process sure
It will fuel your thought resources, true.
Mining specks and dots in deep space treasures
Boundless designs shine assigning pleasures
Unfurl within mind in gaseous beams
Overflowing the banks of conscious streams
Filling the utmost sanctum with soft skills
Milling vacuum with colorful quills
Calming the pulses with embracing lulls
Warming all lives with fundamental pulls
Creating a sense of duo, I and you
Love and dislikes and points of view.
Feeling satiety in charity
Finding synergy in activity.
Minting amity in society
keeps you young aged muddling in daring dreams
Deeply engage you cuddling realms supreme.
So what? if this vast thought mine be blanked out
Will the ghost mute vacuum follow suit?
If sense aides guide a slow downward exit
And mind bids the fairy lids to close it
Will the sun bewail, bemoan and eclipse?
Or will the same smile prevail on red-lips?
If souls sunset in seamless sea of mind
Will lights spill out; team up to stay behind?
To form anew a fresh long microwave
To indent a start with a soul suave
A new spectrum to perceive the forces
For the soul that constantly resources
That differently formats transceiver courses
The energy that cannot be destroyed
But that which can be candidly portrayed
On a vast emptiness fluidly stolid
On a continuum vividly solid
On a clean canvas without dimensions
In a brave new world that cannot mention
A name which is beyond comprehension
A frame that doesn't fall on known convention.
Jan 16, 2019
Jan 16, 2019 at 2:30 PM UTC
I wake to touch the September morning chill
The early dew glistens in the mornings hue; it softens the low mist that abounds
A fox scurries away after his night of slaughter
Whilst mushrooms make their early morning rounds, only to disappear before the dew dries
As the day takes over from the dawn
Crows proclaim their territory and squabble with the rooks
The last murmurs of the morning chorus end its melodious run
A field mouse hurries away and awaits to coming of the warming sun
This September morn sends a shiver down my spine, its beauty personified by its stillness
My breath, fogs the air like a puff of smoke that mingles with the early morning mist
Only to lose its authority to the surrounding break of day haze
Crunching sounds of each step echos on the frosty grass, leaving a first impression
The only clue that I had walked this way before
Soon many will follow to hide my trace, as in my life, my achievements are marred by those more worthy of recognition
September morn I cry out to you: Be my inspiration, and warm me with your promise of the day ahead
Too soon I will bewail your passing, to soon will Mother Nature cast her winter cloak
But I know you will return once again to thrill me with your splendour
I will awake once more to touch your morning chill
Sep 8, 2010
Sep 8, 2010 at 10:56 PM UTC
The Lady Mary Villiers lies
Under this stone; with weeping eyes
The parents that first gave her birth,
And their sad friends, laid her in earth.
If any of them, Reader, were
Known unto thee, shed a tear;
Or if thyself possess a gem
As dear to thee, as this to them,
Though a stranger to this place,
Bewail in theirs thine own hard case:
For thou perhaps at thy return
May’st find thy Darling in an urn.
1.8k
On that last night before we went
From out the doors where I was bred,
I dream'd a vision of the dead,
Which left my after-morn content.
Methought I dwelt within a hall,
And maidens with me: distant hills
From hidden summits fed with rills
A river sliding by the wall.
The hall with harp and carol rang.
They sang of what is wise and good
And graceful. In the centre stood
A statue veil'd, to which they sang;
And which, tho' veil'd, was known to me,
The shape of him I loved, and love
For ever: then flew in a dove
And brought a summons from the sea:
And when they learnt that I must go
They wept and wail'd, but led the way
To where a little shallop lay
At anchor in the flood below;
And on by many a level mead,
And shadowing bluff that made the banks,
We glided winding under ranks
Of iris, and the golden reed;
And still as vaster grew the shore
And roll'd the floods in grander space,
The maidens gather'd strength and grace
And presence, lordlier than before;
And I myself, who sat apart
And watch'd them, wax'd in every limb;
I felt the thews of Anakim,
The pulses of a Titan's heart;
As one would sing the death of war,
And one would chant the history
Of that great race, which is to be,
And one the shaping of a star;
Until the forward-creeping tides
Began to foam, and we to draw
From deep to deep, to where we saw
A great ship lift her shining sides.
The man we loved was there on deck,
But thrice as large as man he bent
To greet us. Up the side I went,
And fell in silence on his neck:
Whereat those maidens with one mind
Bewail'd their lot; I did them wrong:
'We served thee here' they said, 'so long,
And wilt thou leave us now behind?'
So rapt I was, they could not win
An answer from my lips, but he
Replying, 'Enter likewise ye
And go with us:' they enter'd in.
And while the wind began to sweep
A music out of sheet and shroud,
We steer'd her toward a crimson cloud
That landlike slept along the deep.
1.8k
O’erwhelming sorrow now demands my song:
From death the overwhelming sorrow sprung.
What flowing tears? What hearts with grief opprest?
What sighs on sighs heave the fond parent’s breast?
The brother weeps, the hapless sisters join
Th’ increasing woe, and swell the crystal brine;
The poor, who once his gen’rous bounty fed,
Droop, and bewail their benefactor dead.
In death the friend, the kind companion lies,
And in one death what various comfort dies!
Th’ unhappy mother sees the sanguine rill
Forget to flow, and nature’s wheels stand still,
But see from earth his spirit far remov’d,
And know no grief recals your best-belov’d:
He, upon pinions swifter than the wind,
Has left mortality’s sad scenes behind
For joys to this terrestial state unknown,
And glories richer than the monarch’s crown.
Of virtue’s steady course the prize behold!
What blissful wonders to his mind unfold!
But of celestial joys I sing in vain:
Attempt not, muse, the too advent’rous strain.
No more in briny show’rs, ye friends around,
Or bathe his clay, or waste them on the ground:
Still do you weep, still wish for his return?
How cruel thus to wish, and thus to mourn?
No more for him the streams of sorrow pour,
But haste to join him on the heav’nly shore,
On harps of gold to tune immortal lays,
And to your God immortal anthems raise.
1.7k
There will come a day when you will no longer haunt me.
Your words will no longer circulate in my head.
I will no longer see your face in strangers on the street,
And the sound of mothers calling their children by your name will no longer cut me adrift.
Yes,
There will come a day when I no longer bewail your loss.
I will not miss you as I do now.
Thoughts of you will no longer burn like the pain of a bee sting,
and your absence will not ache like the phantom pain of an amputee.
Soon enough,
There will come a day when I meet a person,
maybe in the coming months or maybe in a few years,
whose presence will bring butterflies, as yours once did,
and their words will lift me so high that I feel stars on my lashes.
And, on that day,
I will feel whole again.
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 5:45 PM UTC
Imitation Of Tibullus
Cruel Cerinthus! does the fell disease
Which racks my breast your fickle ***** please?
Alas! I wish’d but to o’ercome the pain,
That I might live for Love and you again;
But, now, I scarcely shall bewail my fate:
By Death alone I can avoid your hate.
1.3k
PATSY’S POEM.
(Composed while in Bloomington jail)
While sitting in this silent chamber,
And nothing else to do,
I thought I would compose a song
And write it, friends, for you.
I am not much of a poet,
Though I’ll do the best I can
To try to keep my courage up
And bear it like a man.
I was born in Cincinnati
And in Ohio State—
Little did I think, my friends
I would ever meet such a fate.
I was brought up by honest parents,
Who thought the world of me.
And this is the first time I’ve been
Deprived of liberty.
It was on the fourth of August, in 1879,
From house to house the news was spread
That Aaron Goodfellow had been shot,
And soon he would be dead.
Suspicion pointed toward me;
They rushed upon their prey,
And I was forced to prison
To await my trial day.
They took me to the station-house;
From there to the county jail,
Where iron bars surrounded me,
There my troubles to bewail.
I never did the cruel deed—
God knows I’m not to blame,
Although I have been convicted
And must suffer all the shame.
A word to my old mother,
And my sisters kind and true:
Remember I’m innocent
Though I must part from you.
Any you my kind relations,
I know you wish me well;
But my feelings at this moment
No human tongue can tell.
Before I close this rhyme
I’ll not forget to mention
My good jailer,
Mr. Franks.
And now, my kind friends,
‘Tis all that I can do
In sending this, my song,
To bid you all adieu.
Patsy Devine, in a Bloomington, Illinois jail, sometime between 1880 1882
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 12:45 PM UTC
I won the race,
tail me.
I lost my balance,
Don't right me.
I won second place,
bewail me.
I lost the toss,
Don't kite me.
I won the ribbon,
impale me.
I lost my cool,
Don't ice me.
I won the job,
avail me.
I lost the argument,
Don't cite me.
I won the bid,
assail me.
I lost the battle,
Don't fight me.
I won the vote,
hail me.
I lost the my way,
Don't slight me.
I won the lottery,
blackmail me.
I lost some will,
Tread lightly.
I won the case,
bail me.
I lost the cross,
Don't indict me.
I won the girl,
unvail me.
I lost some teeth,
"So bite me!"
Mar 9, 2014
Mar 9, 2014 at 7:17 PM UTC
While sketching a lamp, it was seen that the current came on.
The memoirs about darkness too got stuck then. Thus started to pray
God is a father who gives ten if we ask for a hundred.
Otherwise, would he trick me, by giving me sleep daily, instead of the death I pray for?
The only consolation is the sky. Its reddened eyes, swollen eyelids, disturb.
The previous day, I saw it fallen into and lying in the river.
No, it wouldn’t have died. I can hear the birdsongs.
Is the kingfisher a bird enchanted by the water-spirit?
Or else, leave it, let it be a fish with wings.
When I couldn’t bear the boredom anymore, I thought I would write a letter to death.
As soon as I finished addressing, ‘O last supper of a loner,’ telephone rang.
When I attended, it didn’t say anything.
Earlier, it had given me a kiss.
I don’t remember reading in any book on marriage that from the second kiss onwards, you start feeling bad breath.
Forget all that.
Suppose I bewail ‘die me, die me’, to the current?
After all, it doesn’t know proper grammar or syntax.
Is the news that the copywriter who wrote the advertisement
for the glue which merges two lives
Didn’t get his pay, in today’s papers? No, let the day get lighter
It is a pity that there is no calling bell in the cemetery
Father sleeps , having secured the mud door .
O no, I am not making any noise
O you who makes fun of me saying that I make a sign of the cross when I see a phone booth,
Please do not sin. You will never find a purer confessional!
I had wanted to make a good lay out for the suicide note, take lots of photocopies and entrust it to a friend to have it posted too.
Otherwise, leave it, it is better to live than to die thus..
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 3:03 AM UTC
You want everything excellent from him
Can't afford, understand how much he burnt
Of his self the candle, the oil turned
Low in the pail, the toil to see you can't.
Not to fail to prevail hard he takes his tool
Every time you try to derail his profile cool
With loud laments upon the un-attained
Without standing a while in praise of what's gained.
A soothing word of grace for the acts that comprise
In fact parts of him too a human caprice.
Some eternal fuel supply the sheen
From an unknown source we believe
Hide beyond the cosmos we live.
For what he does is not his power
But whose behind him under cover
With patented rehearsal who hold
The instincts in his dream could code
And pull decode in no time with strings
His acts are bound per whose wish he springs.
But you demand him to excel and act
your script well and bewail
The one he couldn't afford the travail
The same might be against whose will
That he may over do the strain
whose strings may not hold the sprain.
But since your love is visible to him
Surrenders he like a child in its prime
But you want him to pay rent, a
tenant
For the love space you render and bill
To see your live wish currents to fulfill
Knowing or unknowing the fact a crime
That his talent circuit may get defunct
If he over loads to make you pleasant.
Feb 28, 2019
Feb 28, 2019 at 10:46 PM UTC
Chancing to look through an old file, I'd forgotten the pleasures of matching wits with an intelligent man who actually has working brain cells, not just these "primal urges" 99% of men own. I'm sick and tired of all these monkeys. Go tell some other woman she is **** I wasn't dressing to please you, but me.
(sonnet #MMMMMMDXIV)
As blue skies, shadows 'non cavort from hence
Beheath the watchful eye of, own a tale
Of cloud battalions floating like to scale
Upon that purest sea frame what? I thence
Bewail Jean Yves and O! his wiser sense--
Lost on the wings of hours gone ere we'd hail
More than keen matching wits when time'd avail
Us, yes, a man with intellect's defense.
"God's gift to women," ah, I laughed as twere
Oer what he swore is merely truth, 'til who
Shall now console me, eh? Most men in poor
'Scuse are dull blockheads, never thinking, to
A fault such beasts that only want to stir
Yes, "primal urges" oh! what shall I do?
24Jul17a
Jul 24, 2017
Jul 24, 2017 at 8:28 PM UTC
The lavender pie he swiped from the tables
gave way to many creating tall fables
they ran down the corridor, looking for more
giggling and romping until they were sore
running through the library and lush gardens proper
leaving behind nothing but messes to topper
he and his friends saw no end in sight
until one of the staff gave them a terrible fright
"you'll leave The Gem Hotel with nothing but haste
before I send for the constable to come and lambaste"
it seems peering eyes had thrown things awry
when the dishwasher had seen him pilfer the pie
they hid in a room, large and ornate
so large in fact, they could not berate
as the echoes of the mob could be heard from their gait
their fates to be held by a simple-something they ate
the friction was taught, so tight it could tear
until one of them noticed a phone behind a chair
"quickly, I have a plan" he said and rung the front desk
ring
"we bewail our actions, were nothing but pests"
"meet us out front and we'll put this to rest"
"How will we know this isn't a test to best?"
"I'll be in the window with no other guests"
clink
So he stood in the 2nd story window with defiant disruption
as the crowd who had gathered went into full bore eruption
cheers and wails a mixed bag of admiration
as rumors of the scamps had swirled from the situation
his friends slipped outside as he looked up at the sky
"All of this over a little purple pie?"
jump
Aug 21, 2020
Aug 21, 2020 at 10:58 AM UTC
Shadows of agonies
blunt and frozen
in icy-memories
Espousal’s the dusk
not to bewail of sunflowers falling
rather a celebration of blooming of water lilies
upon the dawn of moon
to kiss infinite stars on the sky.
You may write it down in the history
as some bohemian’s rhapsody.
Oh oh! Thy fellow being
It’s not just, just prosody
It’s the Buddha Poornima
Day of emancipation from all illusions
Beacon of enlightenment
Under the Bodhi tree
When the young Siddhartha
Was deeply moved
After seeing the four passing sights
It’s the concept of acquiescence
to unfold the truth, to unwrap life
of living a moment fully.
Letting go is the divine flow
Of the rivulet called life
For go ego, jealousy, hatred and all sufferings
Nurture and nourish the saplings and seeds
Of love, peace and joy.
Letting go means to be chivalry
With time, nature and with all beings
to flow with the flow simply
like a serene brook in its own rhythm.
Sep 19, 2015
Sep 19, 2015 at 4:10 PM UTC
merciless genocide
slaughter of native peoples
wrought with (super) wanton zeal
feeble ability to thwart
"discoverers" rapine wicked onslaught
merely ratcheted wrecked webbing
wrenched tribal unity,
violently rent asunder
vibrant indigenous linkedin weave
rendered sacred weltanschauung
decimated "noble savage"
woke wretched nightmare,
sans pock marked worsted weal
the Native American holocaust
shrouded in whitewashed veil
tragedy trampled truces
triggering tearful trail
scoped scattered remnant
snuffed out via surveil
futile sympathetic remonstrances,
viz rant and rail
hermetically sealed
***** deeds done dirt
blunted, cheapened,
and deadened
lance armstrong to quail
most definitely coloring faces
of captive
American Indians deathly pale
into figurative coffin
got hammered
rusty nine inch nail
subpar critical population mass
for survival, plus storied "red man"
bereft of ample potent male
off limits to original proprietors
forced to hightail
happy hunting grounds o'er hill and dale
becoming desiccated bleached bones
devoid of awful, pitiful,
and sorrowful fait accompli
and roaming spirits
like banshees bewail
grievous shadow a blot doth cause me to ail!
Apr 29, 2018
Apr 29, 2018 at 6:16 PM UTC
(sonnet #MMMMMCCCLXXXV)
Reft from this earth as Drummond wrote, and hence
Where Missus Browning talked and oft'd bewail
Her own sweet mother's absence, that detail
Of their grief is mine in the keenest sense,
With hours thet drag on tward their vain pretense
I never realized ere. Nor have I bail
'Cept in the Word of God, to groan in pale
Excuse where Mum can't hear nor solace thence.
Yes, be strong. Say you're happy for lo, her.
And I feel like a china doll, as who
One rough push shall quite shatter, whiles in poor
Attempts I run cuz we maunt stop, who knew
This is not life, nor here. Christ is all. Were
It what? I pray, but stumble over you.
12Jan16b
Mar 6, 2016
Mar 6, 2016 at 10:59 PM UTC
Incessant rain
Incessant rain
Where have you been
Yes,I did bewail
For you left my dreams
Parched and weary
With a losing appetite
Incessant rain
Incessant rain
Why did you lose sight?
Yes, I did bewail
For
You left me thirsty with nowhere to quench.
A Glory,
Only you could bring.
Incessant rain
Incessant rain
But now,
I've learned from your wake
I must learn to be still,
Not whine or wail.
I now contemplate my reasonings
That once seemed lame.
Oct 18, 2015
Oct 18, 2015 at 9:17 AM UTC
...don'tcha know?
(sonnet #MMMMMMMMMDCCXXIX)
I prayed for hours; then made my plans t'avail
Us of a party, that late crashed ere thence
It got in full swing, where I'm struggling hence
With facing yes, the loss of that detail,
As if this mercy granted's poor? Bewail
Sans aught recure as if twas mere pretense
To ask for hours, or what? The cost of whence
Is mair than I had bargained, in betrayl.
Behold the fields in early Autumn fer
A spell, and learn to be half thankful? Blue
Skies melting in the romance of as twere
Day's end, come, had we been lost watching through
These hours the flicks I'd wanted I'd missed pure
Sweet vistas that I cherish. I thank You.
10Sep25c
Sep 16, 2025
Sep 16, 2025 at 9:56 PM UTC