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. 🙂