Behind the thoughtless rush that rules my dome;
Rebels a thought to it's impermanence
Infrequent tho', as sweet aromas roam
Intoxicating even doubting sense;
Yet lingers still, equating 'bout an itch
Compounding by her crowding please of eyes;
Aware that grace, in beauty's grace may switch,
And swells of mindless bliss reveal, it dies.
But dreary blinds and lovelessness is death;
A dormant tease with none, left begging more
No! What may loose denotes the counting breath!
The lessee on my neck is there, therefore;

Retitled sovereign, governing this lease
Till by dethrones herself or life to cease.