My Soul Is Not Undeterred To Find Poem by Mark. A Heathcote

Myrrh, frankincense or precious gold:
A swaddling fever to run out the cold,
Truth, dare I not? Agonise mankind.
Loves inflicted weariness so undefined.
The exiled advocate, who leads his fold,
Oughtn't a son to join a king that shined?
With a princely, unabated breath of old:
Fondly do the stars not shiver out their time?
Doesn't disassembling winter's passage refine?
Glories brim-full, enlivening green and bold.
I err, to listen to my soul until I'm dolled
The sunbeams' countless cuts of endless night
More my joy if heaven is perpetually bright.