Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
April 4, 2008
On Some Monologues
Incessant monologues wreck my mind, But the words come out In mumbles - incoherent and trite. To some memories the heart binds Blanketing, shutting out reason, It's then that I realise Wayward is the fancy's flight.