teacher poem

some one complained to the master
let us plant
the ships are lying in the bay
short and sweet, and we've come to the end of it
daughter, thou art come to die
and breaketh bread no more
beneath my window in a city street
i know not where
the agony of having too much power
i sometimes wonder if it's really true
rising moon has hid the stars
i love the old melodious lays
do you hear the rain?
sadly speaking