My doe, White Doe of Rylestone

Whoever “They” are,

Will not… no, they refuse,

To let me eat from this, my labor.


Come swiftly, to this land of Inishkea.


I would much rather till the soil

Than, as Longfellow said,

Turn the potter’s wheel.


I am tired.

I love to write.

It is a joy of mine.

One of the few joys here in Inishkea.


My face is not beautiful.

My body is fat.

My hands are soft.

I am not manly.


But, my hope is in you.


I would make my face beautiful

And thin my body to an iron-flesh core,

I would have my calloused hands,

And I would become manly


If you came to the land of Inishkea.

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