Grin to squint on Sol's own cozy splendor,
Woe to know thee shan't embrace her.

The moon’s an icy iron that them who long that stars were dreams and dreams were things hold gently to their hearts.

Lovely's she,
Who shuns the shrewd pursuer.

Whose heart's unbreached,
By he who heaves in reaching.

And I am cursed,
Of this of coarse,
That my heart laments to leave her.

For this I must,
Commit because,
She shuns the shrewd pursuer.