"cypres" poems
Come away, come away, death,
And in sad cypres let me be laid;
Fly away, fly away, breath;
I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,
O prepare it!
My part of death, no one so true
Did share it.
Not a flower, not a flower sweet,
On my black coffin let there be strown;
Not a friend, not a friend greet
My poor corse, where my bones shall be thrown:
A thousand thousand sighs to save,
Lay me, O, where
Sad true lover never find my grave
To weep there!
3k
I call upon The Sacred Line
That holds within a darkened Shrine.
Use this Cypres to guide our way.
Use this Thyme to see our prey.
A blood red petal to hold our own,
and the blood of a lover, to test the bond.
So come to me of time across,
To help us see what we have lost.
Apr 17, 2010
Apr 17, 2010 at 5:49 PM UTC