Sapphire

A knock sounded on my door this afternoon — I woke up too soon — from my dream — my silver spoon — feeds me the life I desire — desires of gold and sapphire — seem so insipid — before the lyre that lays untouched — unsung — unheard — by its admirer —

Yet the lyre lays complacent — tempting the world with its silence — and silently the truth is fed to me — that the log upon which I sleep — the woods so cold, so distant they may seem — speak under the golden beam — of Gyres and fires there had been — through years and years —have rustled their leaves — yet there is but eloquence in their grief —

Such beauty shares the lyre — who bears truthfulness — such comforting solace — upon the stir of its wires — requires — nerve, but one touch — so accessible this desire