Re: My poem
Time has come, when the leaves are tender,
Which, in turn, do they so render,
A color, a brilliant hue, rich of such,
But those leaves, the ground, they shall not yet touch,
So blown, whilst torn asunder, their virginity to plunder,
With a blazing array, no, a dazzling display,
Yet still the Virgin, lies deep within the under,
Turning, changing, becoming that which hath not yet become,
Now, The Virgin is a but a blossom,
Yet, oh, so lovely and so very young,
A pure-born relief, of her family's begotten grief,
But, alas, 'ner a mere taste upon their bitten tongue.
T'wil not her legacy portray,
As yon Virgin is now the woman we know,
Nevermore the girl we knew yesterday,
Twice, perchance thrice, winter's winds entice,
Yet still, this natural beauty, refuses a slice,
As not the Eastern, the Northern, nor Southern,
But only the Western winds forever do blo'.
Time has come, when the leaves are tender,
Which, in turn, do they so render,
A color, a brilliant hue, rich of such,
But those leaves, the ground, they shall not yet touch,
So blown, whilst torn asunder, their virginity to plunder,
With a blazing array, no, a dazzling display,
Yet still the Virgin, lies deep within the under,
Turning, changing, becoming that which hath not yet become,
Now, The Virgin is a but a blossom,
Yet, oh, so lovely and so very young,
A pure-born relief, of her family's begotten grief,
But, alas, 'ner a mere taste upon their bitten tongue.
T'wil not her legacy portray,
As yon Virgin is now the woman we know,
Nevermore the girl we knew yesterday,
Twice, perchance thrice, winter's winds entice,
Yet still, this natural beauty, refuses a slice,
As not the Eastern, the Northern, nor Southern,
But only the Western winds forever do blo'.