writing poetry

woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me
let me move slowly through the street
i love my hour of wind and light
there was never a sound beside the wood but one
there is no escape by the river
have you seen walking through the village
i know not where
her face is fair and smooth and fine
though love repine, and reason chafe
melancholy days have come
i hold your heart
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
mysterious night