Song. Metempsychosis.

A poem by Thomas Runciman

When Grief comes this way by
With her wan lip and drooping eye,
Bid her welcome, woo her boldly;
Soon she'll look on thee less coldly.

Her tears soon cease to flow.
'Tis now not Grief but Joy we know;
From her smiling face the roses
Tell the glad metempsychosis.

Reader Comments

Tell us what you think of 'Song. Metempsychosis.' by Thomas Runciman

comments powered by Disqus