Out of the shadows, thou dost
After all times that thou lorned;
I hate mirrors and thee most
When fourteenth sun doeth horn—

When bright roses all afire'th
And sugars playeth with the air,
I condemn this very life
Whom of envy and unfair,

The lyrics from every tongue
Of just happy and in love,
To me biteth as the fang
Of thy serpent, of my scythe!

The scent of February
And its fortnight willeth come,
Subtle shade of jealousy
Upon all the Earth and man

Oh Valentine, thou hurteth
Thy caitiff flesh and spirit!
Oh, the fourteenth sun shall set
And our roads are to split!

Wilt thou come again?