this green dream,
of which i think too much,
marked of dint and lurid scar
whose cloven cheek
is comely seamed:

bares the hurt of boyish touch
where felt too full the words they speak,
now lies in frost–winter ajar.

but if could i
return to shoots
the forest where in snow is kept

your ice'n heart, my heat accept,
i'twould not despair to die:

But–

alas,

"pity is praised as the virtue of prostitutes."