On the 'sill in the dew of the morning
I hear the wet wings of the dove
And the sound from her throat is the mourning
For the night that has stolen my love.
Tears do not cease grief, for my mourning
Grows greater for all that is gone
Like a flower that opens each morning
Renewed by the rains of the dawn.
No passage of time with its folding
Of wings, over wounds that are red
Nor the rhyme that these fingers are holding
Can comfort for hope that is dead.
As constant as sea-waves are breaking
Unceasingly over the sand
Will be my disconsolate aching
For the consolate touch of her hand.
View User's Journal
Countless Thoughts have been Lost throughout the Ages to the minds of Madmen and breathless whispers of the Dead. Man has come a long way from the Age of Thoughtful Words and Script. This is my dedication to those who have been Lost along the way.
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