Poetry Archives

For W. P.

The little park was filled with peace,
 The walks were carpeted with snow,
But every iron gate was locked.
 Lest if we entered, peace would go.

We circled it a dozen times,
 The wind was blowing from the sea,
I only felt your restless eyes
 Whose love was like a cloak for me.

Oh heavy gates that fate has locked
 To bar the joy we may not win,
Peace would go out forevermore
 If we should dare to enter in.