A Little Braid o' Blonde

I WENT INTO a public ‘ouse to 'ave a pint o’ stout,
the barmaid turned and smiled at me, which really knocked me out;
A braid as blonde as winter wheat, hung along 'er nape,
And when she bent to fill my glass, I scanned 'er lovely shape.

Now don’t you get the wrong idea, I’m far beyond my prime;
This buxom lass wi' soft blue eyes, could scant be ten and nine:
THO' 'OPE is but a foolish bird, and fantasy's a trance--
Still my 'heart beats palpably, as though it 'ad a chance.

Traces

Traces

When a warm, soft breeze
filters through the spruce--
sighing, for it knows it cannot linger--
I feel your gentle fingers on my shoulder.

When dusky, slanting light
spills dappled shadows on the floor--
turning oak to gold--
I see you dancing, barefoot, like a sprite.

And when the sickle moon
sweeps across the dawning sky--
harvesting the stars--
I search among the dewdrops for traces of you.