Who could not foresee but light so grown,
Indeed had given more this better morn,
And just as I thought the sun would rise,
The eves of light had slowly wrung to size,
Or not so shall I spell the end I yonder bore,
Nor brought to hue these silent steps before,
Whence would rise from ash and declare me man,
Whose bitter taste and spoilt soil dare to fan,
His heart as fought as he would never entail,
Mine art so fair and dear could never wail.
But if I would, my life can never be done,
So that I say there’s my life more than sung.

Whilst every night from cold timber long to fall,
A simple melody that guides his way better feel,
Looks east and west and to the stars he nearly sees,
So clouds that soothe the night and protect them,
What brilliant artefacts that shine so bright,
Whose brilliance can only complete my life so well,
A toast to life and all drinks be served in wine.

Category:
Life, Poetry, Works
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