sad poetry

somewhere i read a strange, old, rusty tale
my mother taught me that every night
noises that strive to tear
and so it goes
when the hours of day are numbered
the single clenched fist lifted and ready
i know not where
i saw the archangels in my apple-tree last night
though i am little as all little things
be patient, life, when love is at the gate
gone are the three, those sisters rare
sad are they who know not love
night is dark, and the winter winds
by the rude bridge