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@anne_the_noob14

Very nice and doleful, both

They are, I think, lugubrious told.

Did then you write them on a whim?

Of depression, deep, so mournful them?

They speak of things not of the bourn 

For this, as they, would be all dry.

Nothing left and desolate

Its banks would run of dirt, no less.

So sad, so cheerless, dejected most

Where are the things of lighted prose?

Of poetry that sweet, excelled

So thick and rich to be dispelled

And that not of the deepest pit

Nor even yet the mired wit.

These are the written, swords of light

And even if you didn’t write

Those to yourself, a lullaby

For things of which you had foregone. 

These very good again are they

That written pen and ink to stay

To flow and write the force of all

Who dare to wander down its paths.

Savvy? This may or may not have been on a whim. 🙂