and shut their windows against the rising sun. who leaving reality after shadows run and in the game of many see not “one” o poet! sing not my song to them for they will not follow me.
those who love not sweet little simple things, morning dews and birds with azure wings, the flower that from the humble soil springs and the gentle fawn that to its mother clings, o poet! sing not my songs to them for they will not follow me.
hearts that have grown so old think less of love more of gold, hearts that are neither young nor bold, hearts that have grown so cold, o poet! sing not my song to them for they will not follow me..
What stayed with you?
A line that lingered, a feeling, a disagreement. Great comments are as valuable as the original piece.
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