A. Aidèn Croptops

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ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤXLIII
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤJoy In Death.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤIf tolling bell I ask the
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤcause. 'A soul has gone
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤto God, I’m answered in a
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤlonesome tone, Is heaven
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤthen so sad?

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤThat bells should joyful
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤring to tell, A soul had gone
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤto heaven, would some to me
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤthe proper way, A good
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤnews should be given.
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ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ XXIX
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤBeclouded.
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ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤThe sky is low, the clouds
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤare mean, A travelling flake
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤof snow. Across a barn or
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤthrough a rut. Debate if it
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤwill go.

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤA narrow wind complains all
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤday. How some one treated
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤhim. Nature, like us, is some
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤtimes caught. Without her
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤdiadem.
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ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ We Sat At The Window.
ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ [ Bournemouth, 1875 ]
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We sat at the window looking out, and the rain came down like silken strings that Swithin's day. Each gutter and spout Babbled unchecked in the busy way of witless things. Nothing to read, nothing to see seemed in that room for her and on Swithin's day.
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We were irked by the scene, by our own selves; yes. For I did not know nor did she infer how much there was to read and guess by her in me, and to see and crown by me in her. Wasted were two souls in their prime and great was the waste, that July time when the rain came down.
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