What needst I of thee, O precious one?
What hast thou to offer me?
Thou who art a star brighter than the sun,
What hast I to profit from your company?
True, thou art possessed of a great wit
And thou hast a heart most kind
These things might I admit
But what knowledge hast thou of the mind?
What comfort wouldst thou offer in my melancholy?
Wouldst, in my hysteria, thou keep me grounded?
What else but pain wouldst I give to thee-
I wouldst naught but keep thee confounded
A separation 'tween I and thee
Wouldst best preserve they sanity