poetry

among the smoke and fog of a december afternoon
i know what you're going to say
daughter, thou art come to die
some one complained to the master
do the boys and girls still go
roses and gold
happiness
up to her chamber window
thoughts through my head
sleep sweetly in your humble graves
up from the south at break of day
braided and woven
my true love from her pillow rose
it was a tall young oysterman