Failed Another Test
Like fruits, shaken free by an impatient tree, From the veil of its seed a growth of shrubs; And ye be shrub; and thou flower, Thou comest, the soothing flame, in gentle breeze Of whirling in frantic dance Amidst the the wind-lashed cloud and infuriate shower, Whilst trampled by thy turbulence doth Scattered all thy fate in an eddying agony to death. Yet in the tempest of mood, Doth i write this trying to be Keats But ye know how thy Keats ain’t And ye Knowth the Best. Of yore in a sour wait of moment; No lobby for playing ye charm, For doth I not your prince charming; Wait; and let live the life; for it unwraps The hope of ye, fulfill.