The moon has yet again been touched
On every side by light of sun,
And with the unrelenting march of time,
A new lament's begun.
What good's a heart made heavy
By affections idle and unspent?
And what's a sanctuary
Where no precious thing is ever sent?
Come to me soon, my hope and vision,
Longingly I wait for you!
Imagination mocks me
With a stream of fancies not yet true!
Your face, it is an ever-shifting blur
I almost can behold,
Bejeweled with dark and starry eyes
That shine as freshly polished gold.
Your skin, it would be tender,
Colored peach-pink with a brush of rose,
Your tiny form light as a cloud
In my embrace as you repose.
Your smile, it would contain the sunlight,
And your laugh, the breath of spring,
And as you dream in peace embosomed,
To you I would softly sing.
These images delight me
And revive the fires of my heart,
But then the vapors from which they were made
All scatter and depart.
Oh little unformed soul,
Your warmth within my arms I still know not.
Your phantom weight upon my chest
Has many hopes and sorrows wrought.
The record keepers of the sky've
Declared another wait in vain,
So let this wasted flesh mourn with me
In these coming days of rain.