Sweet November Poem by Daegonius Bonapartea

by the river front i lay, faithfully i play a game of croket by the wiveled lake i wave in the scents in the japanese blossoms i soon decay.what of this tree, and of this river, why do i write and why do i quiver. my body is weak and i will only shiver'away the sweet cries of my love in november. i sit here gazing onto the mirror images of the lakes reflection, i see a section of her glimmer in clear perplexion, but i can not see no i can not know where she is now; for that is the question....