PoetryClaire de lune
Sonnet 2
  • Alas, the time has come, my yellow leaf.
    Let winds escort you down below the ranch,
    And I shall play the dirge with dreadful grief.
    Bereft of thee, the tree is but a branch.
    A leaf does drift, but whither, They enshroud,
    For winds may rush aback and forth in dark.
    Will I alight upon the pond as vowed?
    Let this be sung by that departed lark.
    But leaves do not ascend towards the sky.
    And though I fall a hundred year behind,
    I shall embrace you psyche by and by,
    And One beneath the earth is Two entwined.
    So long as love remains as Earth does so.
    So long as earth’s the place where th’fallen go.
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