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christmas poetry

sommeil, frère gris de la mort
ne tournez pas votre tête
maintenant que je me suis refroidi à vous
pensées par ma tête
ainsi tombé
pourquoi si triste mon bel?
foncé-eyed
souffleur de verre de temps
elle a éclaté le vin féroce
je vous ai détesté
pour vêtir la pensée ardente
le vieil ouest, le vieux temps
mais alas, rêves justes
les jours endeared à chaque MUSE

 



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