Mine hour is but laugh to sing,
In cast of my deforme’d nature
Is this happy hour am come to fling,
In the clothes in white; how mature,
Is part of me; all and whole but a pun,
A spectre of lust I seek and now I am,
It is the echo of what I yearn so fun,
The misery of failure is success I am,
All round the woods in these greater days,
Near that familiar junction by the road,
How happier are the lakes so ripple away,
Now seek my ghost and guide mud my load,
All the words I seek myself in cumber free,
And I walk the art of silence in great dismay,
It was the feet that drove me away from ye
Who could never hold mine arse this bay,
A puddle I sight, the pleasure but fauna
A sight in lieu and all puerile ill attempt,
Very, and so bitter are lips my words donna
Can never rip from heart nor give to tempt,
All I kept to consume and this my birth,
Born to weep my bred heart in leapt mourn,
Now all is dark whilst I walk through girth,
As all motion sewn between us is bitter scorn.

Category:
Poetry, Romance, Works
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