Dean Bourn, farewell; I never look to see
Dean, or thy watery* incivility.
Thy rocky bottom, that doth tear thy streams
And makes them frantic even to all extremes,
To my content I never should behold,
Were thy streams silver, or thy rocks all gold.
Rocky thou art, and rocky we discover
Thy men, and rocky are thy ways all over.
O men, O manners, now and ever known
To be a rocky generation!
A people currish, churlish as the seas,
And rude almost as rudest savages,
With whom I did, and may resojourn when
Rocks turn to rivers, rivers turn to men.
Any corrections or public domain poems I should have here? Email me at poems (at) this domain.