A convert sings:
Dear October looking like June,  
my notes went outside and cried. Happy nerves. I need a new sum of scansion,
just remembered.   
 
A heart holding  
my tongue on the verge of resisting notes of civet and benzoin.   
 
In the right daylight outside yet  
“In each house a different hall, adapted to sever the head  
from the vine.” That’s an odd thing 
to say, are you self-embedded or out?   
 
In a summons I quote all morale is short lived.