From ends of time and seasons quaint
i have asked "what aroused thee?"
Thy spirit of ombre game
between hope and melancholy
Summer, the mighty king of pastoral sonnets
sits on the thrones of melody
Autumn with thy fruits of farmers and gulls
And Spring! the mighty spring
the luxury of fame and splendour
Bless me with thy Poetic Muse of fame and glory
Poets of fall, poets of glee
poets of Jove, poets of eternity
mock me with thy haste
Write me through elegiac taste

i come to you with snow and king
tell me when i killed your joy,
Paris never loved Helen in any dire season
Winter never attacked the city of Troy
Nor have i burned you with glazing heat
like summer does through months
or the autumn that has interlude itself
cunningly between farewell and Jove's lust
or the spring whose beauty is unacceptable to poetic realms
and have filled human minds with fake charms
What is beauty without turmoil and hate
but also a warmth from your lover's arms?

Look at me, and tell me if i mirror you,
of human fates and glory
look at me, and i will tell you
of man and his story
Have faith in me and take in my beauty
take in the snow of your dreams
I bid adeau to your poetic realms,
For all i can try and be a hero in your escapade
i can try to wear and armour and rescue your elegiac notes
here's my tale for your poetic fervor,
here's my letter to you.