Even a sheep’s wool is often bruised

Firths of ice turns to scattering glacier

Snow crust in a scorching noon brews

So is a heart wounded in dementia

On this rubble many have trudged

Eyes sickening, face grimacing

Hearts wounded and bruised

Upon the forlorn hill there’s a silver line rising

More pristine than your dappled heart

Like a rising Osier on happy rills

He that sorrows himself but harms

A soothing pain pierces with deadening peels

Happiness is a self-enthroned king

Who spruces like a bride to the aisle

Decked with foppery of royal print

Her fluorescence ravishes the narrow gate

Where melancholy betides, life gradually dies

The reins of sorrow pierces through the marrow

It leaves one ribald as he was never alive

Rise Oh dwindling soul

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