Slumbering deeds do none of which we desire,
For in sleep is but where gloomy dreams dance,
In their graceful heavens where we shall never find,
For we are engulfed in the winds of endless romance.
A love, perhaps that is what we call it indeed,
But her beautiful eyes burn far too bright,
With its luminance beneath the dear lonesome moon,
In dying flames shall indeed we sleep not tonight.
For we will forever want that of which we had none,
And forever miss that of which we had once.