Give yourself a thought or thrice,
              For the life you had was paradise:
           Your youth, whence lies were but notions sin,
                And sin was but a notions din.
            Be not the years you’d lived before,
               Stead be ye whose heart is bore
           Of the day and the night whence dreams are forged.
         Be the phoenix from such ashen, gorged.
          I say: live thy life, yet be not your child-self adorned,
   For thy life’s-color may be scarlet-beauty, scorned.
              Entangled so, let thoughts untwine
                 Thy memories of pain and pine.
        For love will come on the whispering mire
           Whose call is lost to the listening liar.