By Love's regard I must, in fear, a truth
Admit about the muse betwixt the ear:
Alas, I now pervert my stresséd youth
With your end—the Autumn's Winter sneer.
I sought a thought for a sure warmer air
That distance by convention is mirage
To find now that my sense be struck with err;
Frayed, impeded by hand of your visage.
But proof! Look up, the zenith becomes my
Surrogate repose; find calm and rest.
We are alike beneath the fast'ner sky,
Marks on course, sun passing east to west.
My dear, sojourn, bid Albion adieu.
We meek hands shall build Albion anew.
© Copyright 2016 Kean Flynn. All rights reserved.
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