This calling on my hazel wreath
Draws my heart out from its sheath.
Though with love, my mind is stained,
My soul remains still sable-grained.
Her voice, ambrosia, so divine,
And yet I fear to make her mine.
I just ebb to find an ell
To soothe the solemn passing bell.
I am not blind for lack of sight,
But for a waning Inner Light.
My demons poisoned my wishing well
To be sustained I have fell.
I still long for her embrace,
See mine reflected in her face.
Yet I can’t sojourn this foul rise
Before the shackles of their eyes.
As lethargy calls me “Friend”,
Can my recession ever end?
That calling on my hazel wreath
Has locked my heart up in a sheath.