gothic poetry

a blue-black nubian plucking oranges
i saw you hunched and shivering on the stones
eighty years have passed, and more
rocked in the cradle of the deep
do you think, my boy, when i put my arms around you
last midnight
i made a vow once, one only
the smell of the rose so false, the thorns so true
i have to say good-night
when i looked into your eyes
come down at dawn from windless hills
birds against the april wind
the rain was over, and the brilliant air
it tells of good old times