The Years - Poem by W.F.D. BLCK
The years go by breeze on vine along the long circles of time.
The telling of a season gives and strips away. Makes one look
at past reflecting days. Through the interior eye there will
be dreams. The reality of tears on field and stream. The turning
page of age sets on brisk wings. Living joys and pains strokes
the violin strings. Things beginning and ending cycle is universal.
In our tumbling existence there is good and there's evil.
So the stories flow with the passing of the years.
Comments about The Years by W.F.D. BLCK
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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