Where looks would, such silent pleasures speak ©
Shaw o' Inchrory
What misery's way my world in woe
of those own thoughts thy blessings stow.
Upon a world that would not hear
or see such self, as foolish seer.
Heed I not of heart, or heddles home
there would, those wilder regions roam.
For man was ne'er a memory made
that gives no gift o' life's last lade.
What reason would a wish to, write
if too, those thoughts it thrall's a right?
Life would so seek own labour's toil,
begrudge ne'er bonds o' midnight's oil.
Styles eulogy, eloquent ecstasy.
Wherein those spoken looks, wise words, we see.
O' misery I would, what words there may
heed none I write, gift's death delay.