Author Blanche Taylor Dickinson Chilled into a serenityAs rigid as your poseYou linger trustingly,But a gutter waits for you.Your elegance does not secureYou favors with the sun.He is not one to pity fragileness.He thinks all cheeks should burnAnd feel how tears can run. Rate this poem Select ratingGive it 1/5Give it 2/5Give it 3/5Give it 4/5Give it 5/5 Average: 4 (1 vote) Rate Log in or register to post comments