def poetry

stuff of the moon
the darkness steals the forms of all the queens
which keeps
under dusky laurel leaf
as it
there was never a sound beside the wood but one
i have heard that a certain princess
sleep, gray brother of death
sitting in his rocker waiting for your tea
melancholy days have come
when the veil from the eyes is lifted
lady, your heart has turned to dust
why are the things that have no death
there is a city, builded by no hand