I lay at the tip of the ceramic windowsill and haven’s breath doth seethe my lips ajar
Fragile in my bones not more than a spur
A flowered bed I my heart belies
Doth not fair my valleys dun
Then shall the sounds of music filter my craven ears
A God of love I confided
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The temperate sea shines thou more brightly
Shall not the rivers shimmer with beauty lie
Wonders in manifold beauty unfold
Thou caress the caring
And defile the hoard lying at the bark of woods
Tis nothing mere than wistful doting
Thy hands dost guide the feeblest souls
Color of pink, yet thine is more pale
Redder than crimson thy feet commit crime
Charcoal doth beg besides the blackness of thine heart
Compare thou me with the chariots and fiercest
Thyself lament at the crisis of penitence
Gravel, yea pure gaudy gravel thy intestines churn
Bellies chunk like heap upon the tender bearing of gluttonous stomach
How does the world forlorn thou churl
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