funny poetry

and how could you dream of meeting
o fair and stately maid, whose eyes
fat black bucks in a wine-barrel room
eighty years have passed, and more
she might have known it in the earlier spring
they may talk of love in a cottage
those black eyes i once so praised
tell me not
of sun nor stars
i saw you hunched and shivering on the stones
desolate and lone
into the silent land