A book of old upon the hearth in wait
of eyes to taste the words upon the tell
of time in chime as then the hour is late
and dreams have come to sleep in nightly dwell.

The thoughts of one, of pen and flowing ink
now dry in lasting words of blackened write.
A style which takes the mind to twisted think
no matter how you ponder it so slight.

Can not a word be writ in claim of love?
Without the shroud, be heard by all to hear.
As soft and shear the whitest silken glove
where not they’ll shed one single crystal tear.


As leaves are blown and limbs are made to bend
a gasp shall come upon the page’s end.