The child, freshly by her mother beaten, for slipping on a scree,

Weeps her eyes out, and at it, hugs her mother again for succor,

That though the petulant woman shoves her away still sour –

The pliant child from her tyrant-love never be free!

Lo, when that I look on this weeping child, mistreated, disdained;

The scorpion-tears stinging her eyes, and still a most loving heart,

Longing the warmth of her oppressor, blind in love than a bat –

Keenly I remember me, and all the injuries from you sustained:

These are the scars, these the stripes, of the whips of your scorn,

In these bleeding lines, in vain weeping for deliverance;

To draw mercy of you, or that you face perditious come-uppance,

In the hands of the age to come, when they find what to me you have done!

Stand sure the ever-green blood of these lines for all time will run,

And still give these life and tongue, to tell how one more fool died lovelorn.


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By Sydney Chesterfield on May 5, 2016 · Posted in Letters To Shindara by E.R. Chesterfield, Literary, Poetry

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