Our lonely hearts under this weather;
Though you round nice in that lack belt,
content to endure the calm rain drops
Leaving desolate the woody house alone.
The soft falling of the pattering rain;
the thin silvery-drops bring not rest,
The usual ovation that comes is silent
Fail`d by certain restless of lone thought.
Yet now your maternal instincts soaring;
Impelled by motherly love you have left
The cold rain and went in to caress gently
Your little oblivious suns weary of cold.
yet still I`m here in perfect solitude;
Under the leaden sky objectionable weather,
The rain is hollow almost in glance invisible
And a locked sight within is banal straight.
The mirthful ovation of a commencing year;
Trailed by mundane resolutions at myriad,
Has a little transposed with evocations cleared
Not by pounding reality but cold souls in brusque.
our lonely hearts under this weather;
though you round nice in that black belt,
Mine`s lack the content that runs in yours
And yours lack the solitude that runs in mine.
