These dewdrops are the jewels you offer,

they’re crafted though the chiseling words through time

the honey-suckle softly breathes, I see,

the creek nearby expels it’s soothing rhyme.


bread, my milk, sustenance can feed

your generous decree to labors sweat-

the joy of songs, of leisure blessed indeed

my time, my health, my portion I will get.


Still I know songs are written of these joys,

that still will seem to make this life complete;

this life can become all with its alloys,

though the state of my soul is defeat.


I see this perfect life lay down for me,

when I am bought with crimson currency.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s