Wednesday, July 04, 2012

474. Cahirciveen, 1720

False friends beam slyly in the taproom
and thy name is now unknown to me,
thou Jezebel! The very doors of hell
yawn wide in a field in daylight
my bruiséd soul to greet. A breeze
whistles through the woods, and I,
who once would fawn, dissemble fright,
who would once yield, go weak in my knees,
go light of head, run fey in your sight,
am but a warp in a winding sheet.