poetry

do not grieve that it is over
in an old chamber softly lit
i've won the race
when i looked into your eyes
the saddest of the year
up to her chamber window
look out upon the stars, my love
be in me as the eternal moods
she was a beauty in the days
do the boys and girls still go
who is the runner in the skies
before the solemn bronze saint
pushing out, struggling vainly
the agony of having too much power