Stephen Spurrier Jr. Poems

Laborious for no worthy gain,
Spat on by the Imps of pain,
All for naught, this effort seems,
As noted in my nightly dreams.
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The pensive moon doth paint the sea—
In frosts of white and silver glee…
Chilly—chilly blows the tree
Standing awed by Purity…
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The dead beloved flashes the inward eye—
Though Scripture saith once to die…
Still, this eve—the crackling fade in summer,
She visits my inward self— one to not remember…
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