Isaac Barton

The clouds o'er mountains drift,
The mountains drip the stream;
Snaking waters will quench the field,
Seeping, weeping their noisy tune
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Forever ash and blood shall yearn,
To meet, entwine in deathly urn
And dusky paths of wild flowers
Now wilter in Man's receding hours.
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The wise say more of grace
As clocks count down the time,
The photos crease and fade
When youths a distant chime.
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Everchanging sands, cruel and fickle;
She rests in shaded desert trickle
Singing beneath those swaying palms,
Ancient hymns, the antique psalms.
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My love? It grew in dissonance,
So sleeping, all began anew,
In gentle scents of innocence;
I dreamt a Rose of Midnight Blue.
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