As passion yields to memory, Heart's magic dies
Sullied by relentless attrition of time
As passion yields, out fierce feelings fly
Mind bereft of the profound, sublime
Enchanted no more the spirit rues
The famished soul quails in anxiety
Losing the lustre of Love's iridescent hues
It succumbs to wanton apoplexy
Betwixt the Loves the poet searches
Refining her enchanting snare
Holding high truth's torches
For power dwells in there
       I think I died, Love, I think I died
       When out of sight you, disdainful, glide