The Ides of March

Under the banishing sun

Through the quelling spirit of mid winter

I am at mercy toward the sick night

Am emancipated; born imprison of great age

Leigh’s quilt not the grove asunder

Willows forget to sway

I sorrow for the dark prince of this short day

Only stirring above the tundrous ground;

Are my memoirs; reflections as to imagine fortnight

Below; the galley holds the last firmament

And now dust to brim the chalice

Whoa; is the earth poor

Without her summer’s maiden

And whoa; is my mind’s thirst still greater

Sovereignty thieves my provisions

In passing so idle I dismay

I shall lull through this ill romance

Until the great dance is reborn in three moons passing

Winter shall perish there

As the Ides of March shall alight and nourish the sky

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