Cassandra1
03-19-2008, 02:51 PM
On this windswept dreary night,
I sit in quiet repose,
And contemplate my seeming plight
Of the writing of this poem.
How can I compare my writing here
To the greats who have gone before.
Yeats, Auden, Donne's, Sandburg and more,
The truth be written: I cannot.
My heart is written in this time
And theirs was in their own,
So pardon my heart, and read my words,
In the sincerity they are sown.
I sit in quiet repose,
And contemplate my seeming plight
Of the writing of this poem.
How can I compare my writing here
To the greats who have gone before.
Yeats, Auden, Donne's, Sandburg and more,
The truth be written: I cannot.
My heart is written in this time
And theirs was in their own,
So pardon my heart, and read my words,
In the sincerity they are sown.