365 Days of Poetry (Part Two)

Day 81: Bleak December Wind.

Come, come thou bleak December wind,
THIS is the end of him, here he lies:
Two eyes, two ears, and but one tongue.
Polyphiloprogenitive...
The night has a thousand eyes,
Old tips come out as good as new.
I neuer dranke of Aganippe well,
Cupid, because thou shin'st in Stellas eyes...

A heavy heart, Belov?d, have I borne.
The Bushman sleeps within his black-browed den,
Dear Thomas, didst thou never shine.
Comin thro' the rye, poor body,
When I went into my room, at mid-morning,
Many the nights that have passed,
Thy strong arms are now around me, love
Like a white snowdrop in the spring...