Poezja

An infant hold, thine hand.
He sucked one breast prepare.
One tongue, white tongue up,
peeking liquid dropping call.

Whose hand response cool lips lullaby.
And making, one day he shall grow.
To hope who hope ours,

and nurses all to ask.
That news of thy crawling hand.
Vows of thy very vow.
Clash, turning, turning back.
Concern of thy own regard.

News where spread wide?
It’s a source of a grown child.
Fruit of thy fertile seed,
dead men, to die or live.
Who kept the front seat
and lift the earth p lough.

And for one thing I do not know ,
Which you are warned always to know.
Won you weak thy hole.
Whose oath have helped you find

to shame thou humbly stand.