In thine own garden lives thy key
to unwarranted blessings;
yet chart thy days and scour thy nights
for skeins of love's great testings.

For yon and hither lives do mingle,
twain they do traverse,
but forget, do not their minds of iron;
twas the blessing that baned the curse.

tis but a spoken masterpiece
that sitteth 'gainst a rock,
yet silver tongues hath sharpened swords
they've yet to learn to shock.

heed, harken, with steadied palm
that which betwixt us lies,
for time, being time, seems true, but thus,
endears solely desecrate flies.

Once, if it please thee,
snip back hedgelings overgrown
to reveal in a silent plea
the child who's all alone.

Fought for freedom to forget,
finding fear that seems aught of time,
her wisping tendrils wrapped twice, twice yet
round her throat with reason and rhyme.

To love is to look,
like an unbequeathed shield
for a ring or a hook
that will help thee to yield.

But yielding is not for the feinted of heart
or for the young vain and trampled,
for in my own heart i feel set apart
and no longer feel life is ample.

Twas pity that did **** her soul,
a murdress make her be,
but unkempt passions of her mind,
did bind her soul with thee.

Fie, the storms of roiling brew,
for shame, the frolick'd waves,
thy heart and head under wilt go
till she unmasks her grave.

Once put aside, it never dies,
but lives fervently on.

Tis but a shame that love will droop
when thine effort carries on.

They buried thee in roses,
of a soft and lilting hue,
of petals soft and trimmings long,
and virtue pure and true.

Thy faces bore the markings
of a girl buried in rock,
the 'witching cause of scorching pasts
and thoughts that led to shock.

Far be it from the minds of old
to push the past down yon,
to wish away the learnèd pulse
that rules your life begone.

So treasurèd be love itself,
the will to live be strong,
'tis hard enough to kiss the weeds
when they've torn up your song.