Shalt thou not depart from Mother's cruel hand?
To beauteous summers in life's wondrous haze
Where time shall not fall like temperate sand.
Shalt thou not delight upon man's soft gaze?
As from his breast, bitter judgement shan't stay,
Nor shall it lay waste to thine satin ear.
Shalt thou not dwell within words of today?
To don language, till thou will disappear.
'Gainst benevolence thine soul remains pure;
Lips untainted nor marred through Death's fell plight.
Lest thou plunge to His treacherous allure,
And fall from grace through earthly human spite.
Till Mother doth reach, and spreads spindly hands;
Shalt thou not die? With stone wings far from grand.