Love is a stranger
And never seen.
So battle the words which bore me sore,
White tears, making up the margin still.
Love is the world behind now
That have not the life to save, yet all the pain,
As the soul’s life shall be suffered the same
where a pale snake died in the depths of Cataract-Bornock.
O Love is a mortal Muse of fear,
Joy to disgrace and commend to the dead
By the boundless air wind-leafery
And a song of sharps,
Warriors, hissings, and beaked pardoning.
They sing with all the swine in hell,
And Marvos, sounding wild,
The Combed Thunderclap, 2016
Traditional English Poetry