Frozen Syrinx Frosty fence posts guard the frozen way As from the field I watch the bright inn's light; A town-born lass has asked this bard to stay, And yet I sleep midst icy bales this night. How sweet it is to kiss a merchant-lass's smile, And share the night in softly giggling blushes - 'Tis not my lot. I wander lonesome mile, Swept out the door like floor-strewn tavern rushes. The mayfly of the mortal lass or lad Too quickly passes by my goat-legged kin. To love a child of Adam we find sad; To father - as mine did - we find a sin. I won't abide tonight beneath their roof... Their dancing was not meant for cloven hoof. copyright 7 February 2001 by Earle B. 'Glas' Durboraw; travelling.