Melancholy

Posted on Posted in Poetry

Greater discontent Richard never felt,

Than the bleakness I feel now.

The taut white face of winter longs to melt,

In the gentle arms of spring.

Long days of summer never cease,

And refuse the hour to sleep.

A twig snaps on the forest floor,

A startled deer looks up to see.

Sad is the comfort in this glass,

Which stands in front of me.

 

 

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