And that is our death!
And that is our death!
Not the great nor well-bespoke,
But the mere uncounted folk
Of whose life and death is none
Report or lamentation.
Home I came at wintertide,
But my silly love had died
Seeking with her latest breath
Roses from the arms of Death.
My hounds they bay unto the death,
The buck has couched beyond the burn,
My love she waits at her window
To wash my hands when I return.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories