Is It Poetry
Alone In The Garden At Dawn
These gardens were built during dusk to decorate your face.
This is the face in the garden a movement just before dawn
bright is the face of the moon it floats by.
Fresh is the dew and the smell that intoxicates all within reach.
It is wine made from purple grapes
hang over the banks the brook is the spirit of you we drank from.
Wherein, only one does not hide behind your hundreds of faces
purple grapes hang under green leaves.
In this garden is a scene each must play many died during the search.
But this pain is not for those who come and like lovers see.
You are the sun each lovely face we often find here.
You are the river of wind and come fall there is wine.
And the vines grow more robust every year.
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(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
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