Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
From dewy dreams, my soul, arise,
From love's deep slumber and from death,
For lo! the treees are full of sighs
Whose leaves the morn admonisheth.

Eastward the gradual dawn prevails
Where softly-burning fires appear,
Making to tremble all those veils
Of grey and golden gossamer.

While sweetly, gently, secretly,
The flowery bells of morn are stirred
And the wise choirs of faery
Begin (innumerous!) to be heard.
Lemon Apr 2019
while they slowly sway
With the evening
PK Wakefield Aug 2012
it was november it was raining just a little bit
of rain was powder fine glisten soaking
the frail pale length of the forest long dark
sleepily crisp in gnarled and in limbs
crooked elegent
the way was streaming(bent with treees)over
and a sprig of magic sharply
in my nape first creeping
through loam(worms)
my chest
worn of heart broken, i
through gnarled lengths of long sleeping trees
freshly said life
in the nicely dead forest
my heart(worms)creeping
through loam

— The End —