Where went my muse? I'm bereft
Of inspiration, with nothing left
But rustling leaves and frozen limbs,
A winter of words and wooden hymns.
Though on the ground lies hoary frost,
Where every sprout of beauty's lost,
The Lord who made the perfect rose,
Needs no high style nor elegant prose.
The simple truth is beauty enough,
He sees the diamond in the rough,
To him is fair what's pure and plain,
This poetry I seek to obtain.
Posted about 1 year ago