Or aught but beautiful
Or sleek to dove's wings
of wood,her wild wings of
a gull, call her not wicked;
those words touch and
consumes her like a curse.
But love her not too much,
too much for that is even
worse, oh she's either good
nor bad but innocent and
wild. Enshrine her and she
dies.
Who had the hard heart for
a child.
©
S