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friend poem

un orage monte sur la marée
il y a une ville, builded par aucune main
levé des morts
qui appellera le vent
les drowses pâles de jour sur l'occidental trempent
chère épouse
tous en baisse les années
o juste et stately bonne, dont les yeux
souvent je pense Ă  la belle ville
ils me demandent où j'ai été
doux et fort
ne restez pas plus
dans des vos bras était le plaisir immobile
par le pont grossier

 



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