Watch the way the words come tumbling
ink upon the page
Just to think in script descrying
patterns of an age
Wet your pen, and whet your whistle
cast your fancy where it may
Bleeding heart, by thorn and thistle
torn, runs on to play
Waxing all affected,
waning like the moon
of late, love comes home rejected
ends the talk so soon?
Lest, thinking some other thing
to talk of ere the cadence fall
The tongue, still young that learned to sing
when age has come, said naught at all
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