Shall we count the hours
you rimmed in gold?
Awash in wine not sweet but sour;
no warmth shall be brought
to this day ever cold.

In your heart I sense a loveless pyre,
burning bright in endless night;
No climbing sparks leap up these walls
No constant lover will grace these halls.

For you, oh shade!
Oh graceless within your ***
Now seek to drown;
I, within your waves of play
And no such 'write
will come to say.

Within your head, your heart and artless mind;
Nought but a mirror grows.
Nought but darkness holds.
And in that glass of strange design
You hold your fate,
but never mine.