Sweet Child

O Vermilion! your head must you rest
Upon my lap, before we bid adieu.
Make not wait, tarry no longer,
Linger, make this moment last a few.
Why must youth hurry,
or age come crumbling soon,
where time has left l’le said and lesser done
And dreams were more than hope
Could pray subsume?

O Vermilion, your curls! I run
my fingers long and old through
In them rest, rustle and weep, my dreams of you.
Alas, like hair, your soul shall turn shades
And like the sky blur on cloudy seas.
But then so will the day and upon a noon,
when I shall hold not a grudge against you,
My spirit would free you, i’d be with you, i’d be with you.

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