Seek for me not where the wild flowers grow, nor where the Hawthorne blooms, find me now where the snow drifts graceful and low, where meadow blooms lie like I, now dried against cold stone, having been choked out by thistle of silence that hast in such a chill wind flourished so, linger with me in meadow's flush with Madam Winter's blush, find in me a frail voice of softness like snow falling, an old music, a different poetry, a dream of dance hast found its birthing in me, played out on the melodic chords of a harp tis a haunting symphony, for once I was but an Angel of Shadows, ah but no more, now I am thus and becoming so much more so, finding again true loss of passion's pains and desire burning deep recesses in my soul. Ah will I rise again.
Seek for me not where the wild flowers grow, nor where the Hawthorne blooms, find me now where the snow drifts graceful and low, where meadow blooms lie like I, now dried against cold stone, having been choked out by thistle of silence that hast in such a chill wind flourished so, linger with me in meadow's flush with Madam Winter's blush, find in me a frail voice of softness like snow falling, an old music, a different poetry, a dream of dance hast found its birthing in me, played out on the melodic chords of a harp tis a haunting symphony, for once I was but an Angel of Shadows, ah but no more, now I am thus and becoming so much more so, finding again true loss of passion's pains and desire burning deep recesses in my soul. Ah will I rise again.
ReplyDelete