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To The Night, But For Her Whispered Name

20 Jun

Of all the bowery droves she hails,
this wicked night stews bitter sorrow,
amid the rain and haze of her tide,
‘ere she yields, but stays not wanton;

but let her be forgotten, if by disdain,
and she will wake to strike the earth,
if not to reach out to the sky in rain,
then to stretch upon her sullen warm;

that she did cry, but for the last time,
she has come this far to cry no more,
and her soul but wanders freely, still,
away, she flies in her mind, unfurled;

she whispers her name unto the dying,
that they may see her soul take wing,
that this world may be yet softer, still,
and ‘ere I cry, sitting alone in the dark;

‘ere I hold in memory all that once was,
with my eyes to the sky, yet in waiting,
‘ere I stay, as tho’ night held me down,
and ‘ere, she whispers her name to me.

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Posted by on June 20, 2017 in My Poetry

 

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