lyric poem

there was a strangeness on your lips
quietly, with reverance, in awe
it was a tall young oysterman
in their ragged regimentals
weak-winged is song
daughter, thou art come to die
and how could you dream of meeting
moonlight deep and tender
a poet, having taken the bridle off his tongue
mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam
it was the autumn of the year
lady, your heart has turned to dust