Intellect versus Morose mooring
Neither would a poet debate
For either are a lovers dare
In the gentle wind of the dying fall
Where upon the leaves bid sad goodbyes
What do you seek to find
Wait a while, for it brings only winter
Winter muse, winter muse
Says the poet blinded by snow then
Neither fresh nor in a moody sway
Crushed together, in puddles of feels
Writing unbirdled verses of tame
Like those that have been, like the other poets I know
I sip from no cup, nor drink aged purple teardrops
I find my musings in beautiful despair
In her lovely eyes, and gentle dark hair
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