Moral Quietude

Shed your tears dear poet,

For the worlds in pain.

So little profit,

So much pain.

The sick, the dead don't mind 

Unlike the living kind.

As youth has beauty,

The old will find.

With life adored in springtime dew,

The winter blew and furled on through.

Corrupt in cold as life has found.

The quitest of a moral sound.

The whispers grey, the secrets lost.

As ancient as the grey does cost.

And will shall enter back toward,

The young, the old forever forward.