The Threshold

A time of green, the flower not yet plucked. A young gent lost, innocent, untouched. The carnal mood of dark and whispered place. Damsel of dreams did tempt him to the race. But in the frost, a quarrel of his kin. Poor man lost sight, the spirit now sat grim. Perfectly lonesome, a lie he tried to tell. But to his conscience, the fib, he could not sell. When will the season, or spirit, you repave? Oh man of love, bright future waits, be brave.