At one point in life not far from here,
A draught had fought against me all in why,
For not mine if lest be heard but mine in sake,
Hither stood and earnest called the hours wait,
Fettering soon alack gestured north I ought to go,
Breathes the sight of the lining that parts us here,
To tell you where I shall go and from hence depart,
No sooner but none no more nor words never be spoken,
In this barren waste that exists in the fold of me,
Shouts the name that creases the luck,
Hails the sound that scorns the dare,
And just; for just I am resolved to leave,
But forgive me, Man, for I am no man a saint,
I shall call to the evening as the wind sighs,
Surest in this road travelling, my kindred stall;
How cloudy is the road I travel that I am bidden,
How dark is the Sun that forbids my travel return,
In this we continue our road to the most known,
And more we desire our happiness kept as glass still.

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Life, Poetry, Works
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