Page 9
"Songs of a Muse's Slave"
by C.Frederick Shelley


,

DYING TRAVELER
Fifteen miles from help
He lay fallen in the powdered snow
A miserable whelp
The ebb of life about to go
 
He froze to death's icy stare
That clutched with frozen fingers there
and felt his senses bare,
But for the landscape's snowy glare
 
Soon life was gone
And he passed on.
 ON PRETENSE

Here's a word on pretension And putting on the show A thing I'd like to mention Before I have to go

 
If one should mold a false face A countenance of pure intention He shall smolder in disgrace For the falsity of his pretension..

.

.

.

Next Page-page9