Why is thou, my Muse, bereft of care,
For all that my Heart doth hold in esteem?
To take a risk, perchance, to dare,
I divulged the diamond of my dream,
Of kin hearts united by love's native genius,
That knows not church or nation,
To labour for her treasure is a task grievous;
For she is meant to give with no ration.
Yet thou dost insist on our being cleft,
A fuel to incessant infatuation,
I give my Heart till there's nothing left,
In hope of effecting persuasion.
    But to thee no plea can e'er be made,
    Thou dost dwell in the jaded cynic's abade.