Yet
Ere th' season dies a-cold
And cold winds return to howl,
I shall rise through th' violette sky,
Telling t'at my love for thee has died.

May Lawes and Jenkyns shield its rest,
In green skies' bosoms, on dribbling rains' chest,
With a solid poem t'at as ever be my guest,
Back, back my dead love is, in whose nest.

And my heart, once its merited soliloquy,
Cursest thee like a fetished beast,
Bearing all onto the zephyr's shoulder,
Hopping through all past enigmas.

Hath it tampered with my viol's wood,
Hath it grinned over through my sins,
Throwing the grievous and the acute,
Breaking my febrile Eolian lute,

Hast it fashioned so airy a mood,
Hast it carved so spacious a fire,
Hast it drawn stealth leaves from my roots,
Hast it seemed neither mist nor shades,

Then release me, fly me outrite,
To new freedom t'is benevolent night,
With thy grim anew bride and suit,
Wed her away with thy colourless love,

My love is dead, dead, dead, and grim,
A stranger to me and my volatile dreams,
Unlike a cloud t'at once seemed so light,
Casting a shade beyond one's porous fright,

My love's as dead, dead, dead, as it may seem,
The subtlety of my eyes hath drifted,
The congested breath of mine hath lifted,
And I hath now seen what t'is world means.

My love is dead, dead, dead, as t'at of thine,
Thou art a dead soul to my lonely wine,
I'd watch thee bleed profusely on the floor,
I'd close the windows and smile over the door.

I want thee dead, dead, dead, and hastily step away,
I hath no other words for thee, I hath no more t' say,
I'd stop by as thy heartbeat grew weak,
And hear the last words thou wouldst speak.