To A Poet That's Near Death
J
James McLain
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I in all my decadence,
It decides.
And near death,
On your black steed,
I would ride.
The poet in my youth,
I never was.
I cannot die, fair spring,
In the winter of my fall.
And to miss the Rose's
Grow,
That I will never have.
Oh, death can never wait,
For word's.
I have not said,
So as we pass,
There's nothing I can say,
To you, but smile.
Bu şiiri puanla
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