Every day became the nights she ought to sleep,
Through which the sun will rise from past too deep,
Is slumber grown how quaint the waiting hours,
How quiet is the life she seeks in humble towers,
Though for is but here at dawn no void replace,
And whispered loud in lonely keep is hearth misplaced,
Where same trees through tears and sun in leaves adorn,
Hers be the shadow these simple tears is feign reborn,
Alas her tone how faint could not walk a bitter mile;
For each mile stretched is but less so her dainty smile,
Then cast her not from that sleep and since she bides,
Little then is known though honest choice yet she hides,
With this life so many years long shall crawl in wake,
This same fight she had in many days grew old to take,
As much she struggles but fares little as much to cease,
Only to realise her ways of old gave little to lease,
No kindred soul would spend her life with none at ease
For lasting sleep had in that tower was gone to peace.

Life, Poetry, Works
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