The waters of the pleasant flows Murmur old forgotten tales. Here was a jungle before the populace. So I have heard the people say. There was a city of décor, fashion. Time, alas, has left no sign. I am the heart from the School of Sorrow Whom for centuries bliss will mourn. Imagination has often sighted What Reason calls the Boundless. Often, sitting deep in thought I set up delightful fancies. Words change their meanings In the crowded pangs of creation. O the bleak expanse of Chance, Can there be a Second to my dreams? Under the black drapes of the eve Who is mourned by the pouring brooks? Wherefrom do the beams descend? To where do steps of stars lead? A gale blows from the mountains. Autumn leaves swirl away. Beneath the bustle of the new age Old echoes are buried.
Posted on: Tue, 18 Jun 2013 04:26:22 +0000
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