Submissions by JimCroce

Mary! Thou shoudst see my eyes of desire:
For I hath cherished thee: in my reverie
Of fowl and an noble class, of gentry,
And of a far side strew of shelter and bower.
The ancient mariners assist, in the rains less shower
Of thee, where thou knowst these faithful deaths.
Parish thee in thy last breaths,
And fowl the title, the name, Mary!
Thou shouldst see my eyes of desire.
This apparent and faceless fire, for thee,
With a soul, as a soul, of the cloaked death.
In suffering dwelt afar, to the bower,
Then didst the moon rise, for presents and...

From the frost winter's barren lore,
Speak not to the cold but rather the moon.
For in the winter's pain, the sun shines no more,
And taste, I do, the summer and spring time dew.
I have seen this blanket of snow again,
Upon your young, white and silky skin.
But I forget this winter now and then,
When it is your heart that I have been.
Choking flames release the winter's dawn,
To a black soot freeze and blistery heart.
But your love makes these flames hot, and your song,
Makes the winter end, and the summer start.
For you are the sun to my summer...

If words could sing, as a bird,
Thou art my sweet and tender word.
I shall be mad with the pain if thou art silent,
Then turn to be insane, and violent.
When these words fly to my dismay,
Then they all just fade away.
While I write thy name upon the stars,
And would walk acres,
To see thy sullen and somber face.
So that I could brighten it with my grace.
All else would ground when these words are let free
For they cannot fly against the words, I love thee.

From facet, and characters eyes, he lies,
A harlequin jester, from hearts taken.
When dreary days turn to rainy cries,
Thou art the moonlight that hast forsaken,
My mind when these dreams are fresh and wise.
Pristine, these ripples of a shallow name,
Freeze the scattered rose petals 'round thy grave;
Tempting the love I once knew for thee aflame,
And these waters rest my heart, a' lave.
Oft-thou eyes appear clearer in midnight,
But I regret the dreams I know are mine,
For I wake upon the absent twilight,
To age the bleak face of silhouettes time.