Song** Poem by Morgan Michaels

The pangs of Tantalus in Hell
compared to mine are mild:
the pomme that fled, the lake that fell
the thirst that drove him wild
seem like things to brook with ease
a piddling kind of trial
if he were shaken by your grace
and smitten by your smile.

Sweet, the cherry's ruby lip
compared to yours is sour,
and to your kiss a tawny sip
of porter is a bore.
Silence is a sad, sad lot
and love a bitter gall
and love to say impossible
the saddest lot of all.

No, I cannot sink to sleep
but dream- I cannot dream
but see your form and seeing, weep
and wake and call your name.
Then, beside my cot you stand
as if I dreamed, again.
I gather up your shadow hand
it buckles and you're gone.