Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Morning Song

Be as a sweet nocturne to my ear,
Beautiful in nostalgic melancholy,
Or as a thorny rose, for fear
Thou should be plucked from memory
For thy odor. Moved to tears
Would I be if sweet incense
Were inhaled cheaply, for here
Unworthy senses give no recompense

And no reminder of vision seen.
Lost by waking breath
Like ethereal steam.
Your vibrant imagery, to death.
Oh sweet nocturne, oh passed dream.

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