The rain-she rebels again and again
Against the window glass though,
The gallantry falls all not in vain,
As a few trickle down my brow.
Careless she is; once carefree she was-
Last spring; come mid August
She claims the rattling leaves, alas!
The myriad streams carve their trails,
On the glass and off on the lea.
Not from the clouds do all they hail,
Hark! I grow too blind to see.
So I wonder ‘bout that graying stone,
Standing against the crossing brook,
To drown without a sigh or a moan.
Dear twilight of a misty shade,
Falls clamorously yet steady, so
All that stays from all that fades-
Whispers of the bent trees’ woes.
Their pride, now, wears not the grace,
Of the days of their purple bloom,
They be no greater than the thunder’s mace.
The night’s colour remains unbothered,
Unlike the changing moods of the day.
Upon the glass my imprints are cottered
To the trails slowly waning away.
Though, by the wee hours I forget my rue.
And know the night as it is-
The night is true…the night is true.
In The Cold of This Here Morning - picture source: https://za.pinterest.com/pin/200691727122515616/ I could take this car and go, speeding recklessly down highways, never stop, to get a...
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