David L. Wilson
"Why are thee crying?" She then said to me,
Thou tales of angels my heart can not bear.
My old soul corrupts, decayed form indeed;
My dead eyes turn to dust from her bright stare
My Grand little girl then climbs on my chair,
As I fall to sleep a sweet song she sings.
My soul flies to a Kitten unaware,
Its soul departed so its life I bring,
I open new eyes to see her take me,