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I walked in the Garden, of Life's own Academe. Sonnet.©

Shaw o' Inchrory
Cheshire, England

For softness was the hand that she held out to me
when I walked in those gardens of love's memory,
and heard sweet so the song, as I cried o' anew,
drenched, from those tears, of morning's fresh dew.

For sun it so broke, upon light of loves thought
where auras' illusion would heed hope ere naught,
to howl truth, like those hounds of hopes own misery
a voice vocal again, across a verdant valley.

Where graces were pleasure and its promise, gave home
should nature's truth ne'er such, a selfishness roam
like those esters that wax, with such lyrics aplomb
sooth a heart in its misery and memory's maelstrom.

Yet walk I alone, in those gardens of life's Academe
would Morpheus dare words, when recalling reason's morpheme.

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