Nicholas Bradvica Poetry

Oh, thy relics, golden be they,
Sit-eth lonely on oaken shelves,
Neither do thy relics sway,
Nor beam brightly to themselves,
Here so, do thy trophies lay,
Rust-eth bring-eth them to gray,
Oh, but thy shelves are truly gay,
Singular in humble making,
Glorious in every way,
Twisted for thy modest taking,
But easy for thy earn to pay,
Whoso hath these shelves been made,
Whoso breed-eth rose from clay,
Sing thy song of distant splendor,
For thy carpenter to play,
Oaken shelves, of each-eth gender,
Why hath thee naught but fade and stray,
Like the relics of olden virtue,
Which hath but oak, seen decay,
Oh, thy relics, golden be they,
But never like thee oaken friend,
Thou shall be relics on this day,
But oak shall last until the end.

Poet: Nicholas Bradvica