A white-hued pig upon the surface
Of this venerable institution—
Exhausted by a deluge of thought,
A writer sits, shackled and bound.
My summer shade shall never fade,
Mourn me not when I am gone.
So long as breath resides in me,
Let not my treasures be undone.
As tender as a budding flower,
Unshaken by the storm's harsh cry,
Your beauty, mirrored, shall not wane—
More lovely still, when eye meets eye.
Too fierce the sun in heaven’s gaze,
Yet grants you life without a name.
Your worth uncertain, yet profound,
Death shall not boast its fleeting claim.
The golden law, both sweet and just—
Shall I compare myself to thee?
If this be folly, or end-time’s edge,
Let love’s truth live eternally.