Friday, April 4


To you, composeth I this poem,
So deep with ardor fraught.
For you, sweet burden, are these thoughts
That dark the days I roam.

Oh fairest one, you disavow
You're heaven to other hosts,
But being divine, your present post,
Does reverence endow.

Are you so innocent of thirst,
You're blind to devotees?
Inveterate you are in me;
My treasured,  aching curse.

Grayest complected, devotion perfected;
I yearn for this fearful confection;
Dearest projection of love and affection—
Elect intellect bears dejection.

Here I, in moods, do hesitate,
And seem a babe new birthed.
Acquainted though I be with earth,
I forfeit myself to fate.

In even-tempered hours 
I endeavor to console
This woebegone and wandering soul,
But vagaries hold power.

So I, to thee, compose this verse,
In requiems do lament,
And so, in constant discontent,
Descant of delight perverse. 

Love and beloved, survivor depriv├ęd,
Despondent I turn, though I strive;
Reviving hearts cower—forgiving, seek cover—
Devise, theorize we are lovers.

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