But pity is I who cannot sing,
Can only do depth alack my feel,
Is but the softening my voice said,
Is but a soothing dare to sing,
How shall I if not for words to say?
I would learn but my heart in angst,
Surely I am sighing my words in water,
There’s brew to be had; tis only hot,
Give me the rhyme to sing my days by,
My nights troublesome; my days gone,
I’ll wander through the dark whistling,
There’s but a whistle in my thinking,
There’s but a thought to sing daily,
My dear, whose voice only cracks at mine,
Is no voice more soothing than thine heard,
Ne not she sing for how her eyes wander,
No need but I am gazing at ye my wish content,
No need for songs for only actions wrought,
But words, only words is me to contend.

Poetry, Romance, Works
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