At a discourse so far I wait at heart,
Living senses only through temperance,
Thereof am resolved half the man I was,
Should gratitude be at my peril last,
Mine own sustenance be my own desire,
Should the wolf summon me my presence here,
I’m but absent as though darkness endowed;
Upon death am no longer yet time shuns,
Ignorant and reviled the cold art wins,
Peril long last my discomfort retained.

Category:
Nature, Poetry, Works
Tags:
, , , ,
%d bloggers like this: