son poem

better than granite
i can not tell you now
when the veil from the eyes is lifted
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
in their ragged regimentals
listen
i saw the clouds among the hills
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
three years ago today
but alas, just dreams
out of the deep and the dark
all my love for my sweet
those black eyes i once so praised
there is a city, builded by no hand