Beneath the weeping cypress, where the river bends,  
the Tennessee, in twilight’s shawl, suspends  
its silver tongue to mourn what love has lost—  
a gentleman’s heart, by dark enchantment crossed.  

She came as night does, veiled in sable mist,  
her laughter rippling where the moon had kissed  
the water’s skin. The woods, once green and wise,  
stood hushed, as owls bore witness to her guise.  

A queen of shadows, crowned with Pleiades,  
she wove her spells with foxfire and cold breeze.  
The otters fled; the heron’s cry grew thin—  
the river knew what folly lurked within.  

By day, she charmed the sun to gild her lies,  
her lips a chalice brimmed with stolen skies.  
He, gentleman of dust and trembling star,  
mistook her storm for sanctuary, not scar.  

Their nights were constellations left unspun—  
Saturn’s slow waltz outshone by her false sun.  
She taught the crawfish how to clutch and sever,  
the bass to lurk where light dare not endeavor.  

Oh, see her now, where willows dip and sigh,  
a silhouette against the swallowing sky.  
Her heart, a fossil locked in riverbed,  
his, a moth drawn to her flame, now dead.  

The Tennessee, in its eternal run,  
carves dirges for the drowned and the undone.  
The woods keep vigil, roots entwined with rue,  
as stars, like judges, whisper what they knew:  

'He loved a tempest dressed in twilight’s grace,  
who kissed the world but left no mortal trace.  
For dark hearts thrive where human frailties bleed—  
a gentleman’s creed, undone by wanton need.'

And so the river bends, the heron flies,  
the moon, a pallid coin, ascends the skies.  
The night repeats its parable of yore:  
some souls are shores… and some, the wrecking shore.