free poetry

she limps with halting painful pace
i had over-prepared the event
in mournful numbers
the agony of having too much power
beneath the warrior's helm
in the dark and peace of my final bed
braided and woven
for i was a gaunt, grave councillor
music i heard with you was more than music
risen from the dead
the poets tell
i stood by the open casement
it is true that you say the gods are more use to you than fairies
tell me not