the prowling Bee · Scour

Fairer through Fading

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I felt a Cleaving in my Mind

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This Dust, and its Feature—

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Expectation â is Contentment â

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This Bauble was preferred of Bees –

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Soil of Flint, if steady tilled—

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They say that “Time assuages” —

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No Notice gave She, but a Change—

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Who Court obtain within Himself

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Time feels so vast that were it not

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She rose to His Requirement – dropt

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I play at Riches—to appease

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Two—were immortal twice—

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Despair’s advantage is achieved

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She staked Her Feathers - Gained an Arc -

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It was a Grave, yet bore no Stone

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“I want” - it pleaded - All it’s life -

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Defrauded I a Butterfly -

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By my Window have I for Scenery

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