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// The grove of solace 
// Story: Oh, My Dear Octavia 
// by Toe-walker 
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Turn around, swiftly go,
Leaving the waves below
Where the dark gusts still blow
In the old cove.
Look, my dear Octavia, there is the grove.

Bumblebees, unaware,
Full and yet free of care,
Buzz through the meadow, where
Swallow-swarms rove.
Stride, my dear Octavia, into the grove.

Relish forgetfulness,
Shedding regretfulness,
Hearing the breeze caress
Boughs up above.
Pause, my dear Octavia, savour this grove.

Spots of shade form a fray,
Dance in a neat array,
Stage an unfolding play
Providence wove.
Study, Octavia, life in this grove.

Birdsongs ring to and fro,
Playing, in afterglow,
All that to write you so
Skilfully strove.
Dance, my dear Octavia, dance through this grove.

Clear as in youth, you see
You can relentlessly
Recombine endlessly
Themes from your trove.
Rush, my dear Octavia, forth from this grove.