08-17-2017, 02:04 PM
A centuries old cross,
made by the sawdust mill;
did this weathered man,
clutch in his wringing hand.
He walked with aching wreath over the hill,
finding laurels,
by the hemming stump;
where in his fading gaze,
a divided town—
lay asleep below;
seducing sounds of his sorrow.
Some mistress had veiled,
his hemlock eye,
with boundless thoughts,
of the ocean tide,
And bade him not,
go any further than the pyre,
for this would surely lure,
death to near.
Worth grew nowt in this stygian gown,
as heavy lids knew the insides,
of his pining frown.
made by the sawdust mill;
did this weathered man,
clutch in his wringing hand.
He walked with aching wreath over the hill,
finding laurels,
by the hemming stump;
where in his fading gaze,
a divided town—
lay asleep below;
seducing sounds of his sorrow.
Some mistress had veiled,
his hemlock eye,
with boundless thoughts,
of the ocean tide,
And bade him not,
go any further than the pyre,
for this would surely lure,
death to near.
Worth grew nowt in this stygian gown,
as heavy lids knew the insides,
of his pining frown.