Whence came this quill; and from what sickly fowl
Was’t plucked; for I could never write such gloom
Had I some virgin swan’s first-feathered plume
To scribe my mind – what aged mite-ridden owl
Didst cast, upon what crawling forest floor
The pen with which this poet would attempt
To woo – and can but write in cold contempt
To fain find beauty in a world of War?

The moon, to which the Ancients penned their odes
Of love, I know to be but time-hewn rock
Upon its was on gravitational roads:

Yet still, when lovers turn to face the sky,
They rather see the Moon than stand and mock;
For Beauty outmodes logic with a sigh.


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