Fetherhoma, or, The Poet’s Cloak

by phillipmedhurst

This sark, so fierce, in a trice can shift

To down, cloud-white, that glides above

The sorry squats of thought-bound men.

The wrinkled coast and furrowed lea

Frown as I fare on the road of the swan,

And sing the spells of a soul outgone.

 

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