romantic poem

there was never a sound beside the wood but one
up to her chamber window
lady, your heart has turned to dust
softly weeping
how wild, how witch-like weird that life should be
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
those black eyes i once so praised
i had over-prepared the event
earth travails
over the river, on the hill
she limps with halting painful pace
storm
lived by the river-side