Childhood made a Poet's Lyre
Hands embroidered in limbs of dark briar
Bent to the wind's plaintive whistling words
Scattering whispers in your nettled hood
Would they fall to a weathered home
With branches of arms for a laden pillow
And years wrought of withering laurels
Blossoms now on the apple boughs
Stars are near to the shaded arbor
Once a hand could touch
Wherefore the other will search
Childhood made a Poet's Lyre
Heart enfolded in wings of black bird
Could they fly on feathers borne
When lips salute the Hazel's Horn
Or would they crawl through a weathered home
Should lips encumber a mordant moan
Bent to the wind's whistling word
What cloudy guest at this darkened hearth
What cloistered heart to hold the black earth
Once a hand could touch
Wherefore the other will search
Hands embroidered in limbs of dark briar
Bent to the wind's plaintive whistling words
Scattering whispers in your nettled hood
Would they fall to a weathered home
With branches of arms for a laden pillow
And years wrought of withering laurels
Blossoms now on the apple boughs
Stars are near to the shaded arbor
Once a hand could touch
Wherefore the other will search
Childhood made a Poet's Lyre
Heart enfolded in wings of black bird
Could they fly on feathers borne
When lips salute the Hazel's Horn
Or would they crawl through a weathered home
Should lips encumber a mordant moan
Bent to the wind's whistling word
What cloudy guest at this darkened hearth
What cloistered heart to hold the black earth
Once a hand could touch
Wherefore the other will search