Bobette Bryan's Poetry
Dark Is Death
Oh, death's forceful scythe did certain deface
The fair moon and all of its sweet sung tides
To clip love's mortal tie and perfect grace
Whence somewhere on high the brightest star died.
Time shall neither breed another one thus,
Nor bear comparable joy for loan
The fairest dreams spun nevermore for us
But for barren fields that death alone owns.
Ten deaths I'd tender to be where thou art.
Ten thousand swift tears refigured in thee.
Not the halest sun can make clouds depart
When divested of love's posterity.
Ah, dark is death; little may his heart care.
With grim conquest met, no grief be his heir.
© 2009 Bobette Bryan
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