Thy Pale Death, O Day, Enchants Me Not.

By LaBruyere in archaic on

Thy pale death, O Day, enchants me not. Thine ending glow, thy downfall casts no shade Of deepest black against thy glow. Uncaught My breath, unstirred my heart. I bade, I wished, I wanted naught but breathless joy. Cold is thy heart to mock me with such lack And falling…