The bird flew to predictable limits,
Descending by the dictates of folks comrades.
Wondered from the heights
Of admirable jealousy
By voices of lies so loud to lure.
My pride broke bonelessly
To my shame and loss.
For nothing but rumours of straying words
Infant fear grips my queen of pride.
That prison bars were hard to break,
Ageing lords in raging words
For fear of wrongs she never yet,
As others do before they are weaned.
The sun too short a time shone
And never the like ev’r shall be.
A lust reserved waiting a fault,
To quit a timeless oath and love.
‘I am sorry it’s not your fault’
this sound to me a finishes plot.
And when I think on these well again,
I know so well
The women I hate.