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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