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Forever More Shall Boreas send me a howling gale? To foretell the lasting transformation or mock me nightly under sleepful veil and keep my thoughts from fruitful gestation. Where, great Muse, do you hide my spirit’s art? All year, in vain, I await October when shy monarchs arrive to fill my heart with insightful whispers; make me sober. No longer does my soul dream peacefully torn between the night’s rough tides as if I belonged to these oceans solely but neither caring where I’d best abide. So long as I am crushed upon this shore, I’ll live the hermit’s life, blind forever more.
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