Post by thatboweryman on Aug 6, 2006 17:25:10 GMT -5
Lily of the Valleys
Delight is ever wandering within,
Constantly tracing, forever pacing,
The paths of sorrow amid crowded woods.
If I were lost, or within whim immersed
Delight I would entrust with my salvage.
With poise in mind; as though a traveler
In merriment, with phantom step I went.
Until green pastures slowly disappeared
Then I in memory recall a sound;
A mountain groaned, the valleys echoed
And all with blossom grew in impatience.
With humble gaze though on a jewel fixed
I stood, and all in colour bloomed graceful.
Imagination could not render such
Exhilarating emotions as these.
The rose, however cited she may be,
In deep red accent would her praise be known.
Without her gown of thorns; at liberty,
Her strides unfettered from those in critique,
May she in such a bower populate.
