A Dead Poet...

These trocken grasses once moved with wind, 

while September sounded its song...

Alone they lay in harrowsome fields 

Thatched across the mire.

In the brisk year's end

Seeking for love to grow 

I gazed into a thought..

No sprout, nor bract—sprung from autumnal steps

In the australis which held my heart 

Oh me, oh my! Oh, these yawping cries 

caressed by the mood of its rush,

In the reeds once seen 

By the barren eyes ov a teague,

Stand in the absence ov where you are not. 

By palm, my palm, O' misfortune read

Dreading the deliverer of morrow's song 

A seance from sleep confounding me

Over dead memories on where you have gone.