And what of Beauty, and what of Truth
And who walks there through Rowbank Wood.?
Enfolded and placed within a book
Where few would ever chance to look.
To read my words that in your praise
May pass for ever down the age.
‘Your beauty charms the every hour
More lovely than the loveliest flower.’
O how that modest, quiet-content
Might seem -as if- from Heaven sent.
But who am I, you may well ask-
A line into a deep pool’s cast…
Though, if I’m there – I won’t be found
Love’s shadow passes like a cloud…
