’Neath wind and hail swept stone and sod there sleeps a maiden still.
Quiet now her plot where once her lot, where toiled with word and quill.
She reaped but pangs and discontent, denied what she conceived,
beleaguered by the sleights of hope in all that she believed.
Oft’ blighted she by darkly verse of stench and foul a breath,
imposed upon her poetries the imaginings of death.
’Twas cruel her fate, for written, she would dwell amongst the weeds,
the withered stems and fading blooms, the thorns and falling leaves.
Of dreams she wrote, those worthless flames that faded with the night.
Her passions bled whilst sorrows fed the dark into her light.
Forever sought what she should be through shadow, shade and woe,
but always cursed what she traversed her solitude in tow.
When once she roused in fevered awe in reaching for the morn.
To whom would hail her rising o’er the poems where she was born.
She reaching for that far domain beyond her destiny,
into her verse again immersed, but not as it should be.