Monday, January 20, 2014

A word, pale ’neath its bloom


A word, pale ’neath its bloom,
shy as the girl he knew, said aloud,
when the moon was out, on the grass in dew,
near a stone as grew the girl’s name upon —

to tell it now, of how it burned his tongue,
is all we care to show — the word,
pale ’neath its bloom, and how
the girl, and he, are gone.



2 comments:

Sunshineshelle said...

Poetic melancholy and a faded thought of past, love it :)

William Michaelian said...

Thank you...