Wednesday, 25 March 2015

Days of olde by Grant Harbison

Will thee not tell me, nay?

Thine countenance doth disclose thine angst

Pray tell fair maiden

What do thee wish to say?

Unburden thine soul

Reveal its dismay

Hath thine affection withered?

Or is thine heart in disarray?

Hath some imminent fate been bestowed upon thee?

It matters not, my sweet

With thee mine heart will forever be

Nay, sire. For what I am about to say

Thee shall send me away

I should not feel ashamed

Merely my naivety to blame

Thee led me astray

And for that I must pay

For being an unmarried wench

With a child on the way

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