Amynta on the Death of Damon

by

McKenna Byrne

Damon is dead, Damon is dead, is dead;
Amynta's tears slip silent in the shade.
Out from her bower small singing birds are fled,
And save for her tears, her form, of stone seems made.
It is as though she let her own life fade
With his, whose spring would not the summer see,
But marble-cold, on violets is laid.
Love leads all sorrows by the hand - now she
Will follow slowly - living, but cold and dead as he.

NEXT?
Why don't you look at MONKS OF PEACE
by: Paul Curtis
from: Woking, England, UK

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