I tastest t'is wind-ah, still far too sour, and bitter,
And whether it shall get better, I never knoweth;
But who says t'at our past woes are tethered to our sorrow,
When two souls doth align-and find once more-a brighter shelter?
For every real love shall neither be wrong, faulty, nor mean,
Whenst beauty is appraised, it shall stay humble and remain unseen;
For its comeliness is just like a warm-hearted sparkle,
Even friendlier, than life canst once assume-or handle;
Though ethereal still, in the vagueness of my succulent mirror.
For look-how it returns my kisses not-but tempts it into shabby remorse!
Ah, yet I imagine how it might-and might just feel, to kiss thee,
And free myself-from t'is emptiness which hath oft' set me alight, in agony;
Without thee now, I am too frail and not very strong;
I loveth thee better still-and hath been awaiting thee all along.