Do please lift your priceless brow. Let wonder fill and freeze.
Steadfast and marching further now. Do keep the pace I please.
The wind hast' all but twist the sail, and night shall take the blame.
And we shall raise our weary heads from summer staking claim.
Be not torrid, fit or foul as more the field you borrow.
nor let it yield upon you there, sweet, succulented sorrow.
No, least you rise and journey still to prize the golden toy.
And love until your love's of size to help you over joy.
The Poetaster Aug/2013
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