fifteen

A rivers flood wants not measured beat
for in wrathful tearing rush to be;
tumbling eddies giddy-gambol to greet
failing fingers of man chosen to flee.

Breaking dark slivers of dreams haunt
fools who this bank chooses to stop;
a spectre each foaming forth to taunt,
any peace there from a soul to crop.

Fleeing fear stirs winds in lament
of wealth spent in musing wasted here;
small warmth allowed any breast full pent
of memory, fading touch still held dear.

Ahead unseen the rapids heard; not thundering doom
but of new fanfare bright to dispel all gloom.

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