Aesthetic Poetry
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There is sorrow clinging to thy weighted bosom, And a leech hung over thy weighted brow. It is because of all, that we’ve grown heavenly, And carved bread from Adam’s teeth.
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I bring thee, a rose, made of silver,For it clashes, with thy complexion,That has formed itself, through silver tears,And such sorrow, that quakes, thy heavenly bosom. God knew, who to hire,So that the artisans, would sweep their knives,To carve, the most ebony-laced form,Imaginable, to my keenest eyes. Here has my sympathy, been withdrawn,Over to the…
Modern Romanticism 