4.27: Sophia by *LaBruyereA beautiful piece of fixed form poetry
postscript
Why is it all my weary days are spent In turning cowslips into rays of sun And floating over blades of grass, unbent And drawing four conclusions out of one? No mercy hath the stone and wooden fence All rimmed with perfect glass which holds the sound Of freedom outside. Dominating sense Will pin imagination to the ground. Forbear. The time will come when wind and rain Will wash away the mud and dust of youth. To cling to hope which calls aloud again Is to rely on dust to hasten truth. I turn my days of sunlight scattered over And know the truth comes soon to wisdom's lover.