Forgotten Young Hands - Poem by Patti Masterman
forgotten young hands write the new fallen Spring,
where poetry loses her fires, blossoming:
remember, how stars could mine frost in the snow;
how clever their strength, could divided love fold.
the verses from above shall cover singing thrushes,
while man's easy days all die in tall rushes,
and clinging to laughter, are the lips of a muse
for some misbegotten poet, in love with the ruse.
the round light of the season softens the days
so the hearts of the mourners are easily swayed.
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Still I Rise
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Edgar Allan Poe
Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You