But I say not, but then I mean so,
Words I could never dare describe,
Mine heart with sorrow gone too late,
With drooping eyes with tears of glass
Could never tear through silken thread,
Nor the lonely steed to pass me by,
In lonely mountain waste I am spent.
These arts of utter grief lay barren,
Th’ease of woe in loss came so soon,
Ere let me be for this bond forcéd:
Who could not know my heart foresaid,
And as the horse gallops ahead the way,
A heart once I knew rode away,
Like stopped beating, pedals away,
A piano could do better. I wept.
Alas, who am I to question this art?
Take me away, away from here, away,
For Eve in dainty glow could seize Him,
And bestow upon her grace due depart,
Then I am from hence of man apart,
Such sounds I hear are my words thought,
In dismal times my dispelled soul anew,
That I must die again before I die at last.

Life, Poetry, Works
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