Cot death
I dream so, oh so, so high of ye
Night and the soul wilt rest
And raise me on an oncoming cloud
Aloft to my angel, my angel child
That winged my hearts flutters with joy
I wish to bring ye young one home
And clothe thy bones with flesh and blood
But all I have is gone, my seed in the grave
Ye have flowered and died in spring;
Our little winged soul is ye lost like sheep
When I count my dying prayers and weep
Don't bleat child, don't bleat!
In the holy meadow, sleep, sleep, sleep...
Until that time again we meet.
poem by Mark Heathcote
Added by Poetry Lover
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