Routinely lark, though this day depth therein,
bemused as why the warbling fluter turned
instilled and sung laments residing in,
to perch unkind - as brittler branches spurned.
Melodic angst has never sprung so dim
and tunes of fathomed trebles - parted love?
Perchance the ballad pours an Ave hymn;
that from aloft the skies - returns a dove.
If song an' bird be taken dazed with stars;
ideal's wring and bowing strings - apart.
Nor stealth be known - as fervent dwells the scars
yet, bleak the lust for any other heart.
O' feathered, pennate cherub play her whim!
Remain upon the sill, let bygones brim.
