When the pale moon hides and the western wind wails,
And over the treetops the nighthawk sails,
The black wolf sits on the world's far rim,
He howls: And it seems to comfort him.
The wolf is a lonely soul, you see,
No beast in the wood, nor bird in the tree,
But shuns his path; in the windy gloom,
They give him plenty, and plenty of room.
So he sits with his long, lean face to the sky,
Watching the ragged clouds go by.
There in the night, alone, apart,
Singing the song of his lone, wild heart.
Far away, on the world's dark rim
He howls, and it seems to comfort him
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Inner Me
About my everyday life and about my thoughts...sometimes (meaning most of the time) my siblings, both older and younger, will post comments about my day or about me in my journals. And I must warn you: Sometimes this journal might get a little graphi
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