Scrivener
Absentees
Being raised upon the moors, in a house amid the gorse
Society would rarely greet us if we closed the doors
When father pulled us out of school, afraid disease would take us all
I know it made our education secluded
But for all the world I wouldn't give it back
In autumn, 1845, I came upon, in your handwriting
A book of verse so wild and terse it took possession of me
And so a set of poetry in the pseudonyms of we three
Went to print, and like a flint sparked the flame of a dream
In fits of ink at a writing desk
We made our own worlds in a kingdom of words
And you were the spirit of a Joan of Arc, wuthering a private art
An absentee upon the heaths as the sky fell apart
And in the hour of your decline, no fear told upon your eye
The doctor came, was sent away, then descended a night
That eclipsed the dark night of the soul
And you were barely in your grave when another turn of fate
So cruel and clear, within a year took your sister away
She suffered long, complained to none, the self-denial of a nun
And stole away in supplication for alms of the sun
I don't know any parallel I could call to mind
Or render to words like mine
From Letras Mania