Rose! A field!

[MethodicalMeat]

I think that every poet has phases, crazy phases wherein nothing makes sense, like right now, every poem I write is either addressed or about a girl named Rose, did I mention that Rose is somewhat imaginary?

One night a-wandering they went,
graceful Rose and he,
from hither to yon their footsteps they went,
from lost to found and here to gone,
they wayward feet they lent.

Over fallen leaves they lightly stepped,
ranging far and laughing under boughs of green,
over roots and ferns they flew and lept,
where nothing stirred nor spake,
for beast and man both slept.

Dew-speckled they laughed and raced,
through the quiet, shadowed wood,
by red curls her face embraced,
Rose laughed longer than the boy,
whose features his quiet smile graced.

On running Rose had gone,
into woods dark and lonely,
until to a shallow grave she came with no name upon,
where she would sleep,
until again the moon had com and gone.

He turned and drifted from the wood,
until to the lichyard he had wandered,
where over mark-ed grave he stood,
and read the stone and wept,
for it was mark-ed, but held naught but stone and wood.