Saturday, February 11, 2017

Poem #96 Pipe thou waste of visions

Immortal sickle to his silver voice
Fold call these despair mild
Lonely  slopes haunt soft wanderer
Fugitive to honor
The world’s market bought sold
Unfollowed heart like nothing
Feeble gave ground its strength
Beloved Long happy learnt men
Pipe thou waste of visions
Light wandering night
Grown not reach of

Fatigue and fear. 

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