Saturday, April 22, 2017

Another Triolet

We were supposed to do a fable poem today.... I feel that my Muse is throwing her hands up in annoyance, and refusing to really concentrate on the matter at hand. This is the closest I could get:

Though Winter is bitter, keen and cold,
Wild with wind, and wet and snow,
The littlest birds are brave and bold,
When stronger things hide from the cold.
And through the fiercest weather go
Singing for joy ! If truth be told,
I would that I could be so bold,
And singing go, through sorrow.

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