It’s bad enough, that to another room,
I’ll walk with purpose and a steady stride,
And thought will flee like a reluctant groom
Into an unknown distant land and hide.
But I’ve a fear that I will sometime think
Of what, to me, is the most perfect line,
And ere, on paper, it’s put down in ink,
Like vapor, it will vanish from my mind.
© Dennis Lange and thebardonthehill.wordpress.com, 2015.