I may still prefer death to loving him,
For ‘till death itself cometh, he may only live in my dream;
His eyes are a pair of panoramic twin oceans;
Too vengeful for poems, too tactful for words.
The owner of a heart I’th never seen;
But watched only t’is morning, as we sauntered along his roads.
Ah, he might be possess not a calm universe;
But still too solemn for a song-swift as he is, in my very verse!
I am a little butterfly trapped between his fair worlds,
I am his sunny heat, and my blood his chilly colds;
And as I strolled by him in t’is summer breeze,
All I ever wanted was to share his kiss;
For whenst he is upon me, all I duly feelest is mighty bliss;
I am deaf as a dead thorn-which liveth again, as he cometh again.
Yet as I'th said, all shall but fade in a blurred gasp;
For he is mine not, and might never dwell, within my weak grasp.