child poetry

i am weary of being bitter and weary of being wise
i've won the race
within this lowly grave a conqueror lies
long ago, in the young moonlight
as it
like him whose spirit in the blaze of noon
the endless, foolish merriment of stars
wheel me down by the meadow
up to her chamber window
if i should die, think only this of me
here falls no light
i despise my friends more than you
come down at dawn from windless hills