Ode To My Unborn Grandson

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    Ode To My Unborn Grandson
    Ode To My Unborn Grandson

    What quiet morn
    That hears a sleeping babe's sigh
    And gentle, soothes unfurrowed brow
    As lashes shadow tender cheeks
    Tenderly the breeze sings
    O'er its peaceful sanctuary
    A babe's sweet lullaby

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    Poetry is either something that lives like fire inside you or else it is nothing, an empty formalized bore around which pedants can endlessly drone their notes and explanations.

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    Honeygirl’s Poems (31)

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