Poems ✍️

Myne mynde to me a tumbledryere ysse,
where muste I watche my scrumpled, worn-oute thoughtes
seeke their redemptione in Hys watere’s grace;
thynkes-bubbles that do forme and burste in ayre,
thysse mynde’s so constant turmoyle withouten cease;

O maye I humble sitte and contemplayte
the roundel windowe of drye thoughte contained
and I, the watchere of myne turbulence,
Thy watchere aye; ’til time and change begone.