There is no hesitation in my love, never;
Each promise is true, even to a liar,
Even to the sun that hath no wings,
I writ my words and stand to their singing.

Shall I die again today, my love?
Shall I die to gain back my serenity;
For I hath loved too dearly, and awfully still,
That heart of thine tells not how I could feel.

Shall I die again in our young haven?
And its loveliness as our own Coventry,
When I daydreamed by her spacious boughs,
Pondering the promises of our sweet love.

Shall I die again by the flirtatious sunlight?
That no sight of mine shall float through the night,
No flame nor fire shall sign my presence,
My doleful glee, that thou hath forsaken.

Shall I die again for thee, my darling?
Hark! The flute that I left wants to sing,
That my poems are read by the dark angels,
That such ceased desires can be aroused.

Shall I die again for thee, and thy lover?
That thou shan’t see me again in November,
Nor breathe my hair every dusky evening,
Like thou didst on Saturday, several times before.

Shall I die at last, by the stricken sun?
For my love struck me as I passed by;
An affection I had so genially thought of,
A warmth that filled me with hysteria of love.

Shall I die today, by her deathly burns?
That thou and thy lover shall scream with delight,
And my fluent poetry is killed in cryptic joy,
Like the abstruse cold thou feel about me.

Or shall I die tonight, by the moonlight?
That all shall chant with blunt amusements,
That the moon sparkles in his summer movements,
That their heated love is spread on to the night.

Shall I die again today, in my solemn haste?
I hath some errands to run and waste,
For what is love without thee, here and there;
For love, without thee, shall be absent everywhere.

Shall I die again at dusk, tonight?
Then I shall see the ragged men and their souls,
Forsaken by the worlds so fishy and foul,
With no winds to attend and cherish their tombs.

Shall I die again then, by today’s twilight?
Then I might meet thee in an ethereal light,
Thou, bathed in fleeting shadows and lethal sight,
Thou, the son of evil floating at dark nights!

And shall I but dream of thee again, o evil!
Thou, who hath mastered my mind and my love,
That I hath been killed by thy rusted sentiments,
And the love I felt hath gone from me again.

Shall I dream again, o thou, o peril!
Shall I witness again such that forsook me,
Shall I be a drink within such tragedy,
Shall I writ, and bequeath my spoiled poetry.

To thee, who hath forgot, and shall have forgotten;
To thee, who accrues from hate,
To thee, who accurses fate,
To thee, who yearns for arrogant love.

To thee, the devil’s son, the rough prince;
To thee, who hath arrayed a tide of sins,
To thee, who loves in hate and hates love,
To thee, who loves in haste and hastens love.

To thee, for whom my love awoke;
To thee, to whom love is a joke,
To thee, to whom a heart is futile,
To thee, who smiles and jokes all the while.

To thee, for whom my love turned awake;
To thee, whom I awaited by the lake,
To thee, for whom I raised my tears,
To thee, by whom I erased my fears.

To thee, whom my desires found true;
To thee, by whom such wishes are never truer,
To thee, by whom visions are clear,
To thee, whom I wish was here.

To thee, whom I hath loved, and still do;
To thee, for whom love hath renewed,
To thee, for whom there shall be tomorrow,
To thee, for whom stands the here and now.

To thee, whom I dearly loved, and still do;
To thee, whom I am about to love now,
To thee, whose love was once so true,
To thee, to whom rage is not rue.

To thee, whom I loved dearly then;
To thee, whom I loved wholly and ardently;
To thee, for whom I drained my heart,
To thee, for whom I tainted my love.

To thee, for whom I could have died;
To thee, for whom the world hath lied,
To thee, my eyes and lips are able to say,
To thee, for whom I awoke silently today.

To thee, for whom I faint with delight;
To thee, for whom there is but no day and night,
To thee, for whom all the wrong seem right,
To thee, for whom fear is not fright.

To thee, for whom idleness is love;
To thee, by whom kisses are not enough,
To thee, who sees into the ****** my soul,
To thee, who listens into my heat, and cold.

To thee, on whom I hath laid my love;
To thee, in whom my past is asleep,
To thee, granted by the One above,
To thee, for none else is t’is love so deep.

To thee, to whom I hath pledged my soul;
To thee, for whom I shall still die,
To thee, who knows not buoyant death,
To thee, who knows only the youth of breath.

To thee, to whom merit shan’t be merit;
To thee, to whom greed is not foul,
To thee, to whom misery is a lie,
To thee, to whom joy is in flesh.

To thee, to whom love is a burden;
To thee, to whom love is a sin,
To thee, to whom scars are not mean,
To thee, to whom the grass is not green.

To thee, to whom words hath no name;
To thee, to whom life bears no song,
To thee, to whom love shall not stay the same,
To thee, to whom all the good might be wrong.

To thee, to whom swords bear no name;
To thee, for whom such stories are told,
To thee, for whom lovesick lines are writ,
To thee, for whom silent pages are read.

To thee, to whom sounds bear but rage;
To thee, to whom love dies by age.
To thee, to whom mortal is love,
To thee, to whom affection shall die.

To thee, to whom there is no avail;
To thee, to whom joy hath died,
To thee, to whom love is a fail,
To thee, to whom love is a lie.

This remembrance somehow still makest me guilty;
in every minute of it I feelest tangled, I feelest unfree.
I loathest this less genial side of captivity,
but still, 'tis ironically within my heart, and my torpid soul;
ah, I am afraid that it shall somehow becomest foul,
and I wantest very much, to endear my soul to liberty,
but so long as I hath consciously loved thee,
My confidence remaineth always too bold-
But I promisest that this shall becomest my last sonata,
Should thou ever findest, that thou desirest it to be;
whilst my incomplete song shall be our last cantata.
Ah, this series shall but never end,
Should I approachest and befriendest it,
but to confess, more I thinkest of it, the more my heart is pained;
No coldness shall it feelest, nor any beat of which, shall remaineth.

To thee whom I once loved, and now still do,
To thee whom my soul once gratefully honoured,
To thee whom I then endorsed, and magnified,
My heart, ah-my poor heart, is still restricted, and left within thee,
And amongst this dear spring's shuffling leaves, still blooms,
And shall bloomest forever with benevolence,
and even greater benevolence, as spring fliest and leavest
Just like thy sweet temper, and ever ostentatious laughter,
Thy voice and words, that are no longer here for me,
But still as clear, and authentic like a piece of gospel music, to me.

To thee whom I once loved, and now still do,
To thee whom my soul once gratefully honoured,
To thee whom I then endorsed, and magnified,
My pleasurable toils, and consummation still liest in thee-
as forever seemest that I shall trust thee, and thee only,
For the brief moment we had was but grand-and pleasant,
All the way more enigmatic, though frail, and exuberant
than I couldst perhaps rememberest,
But as I rememberest them, I shall also rememberest thee,
For those short nights are always fond and stellar to my memory,
As thou pronounced me lovely-and called myself thy lady,
As thou lingered about and placed thy sheepish fingers on my knee.
Ah, thee, whose heart is so kind and ever gently considerate,
From the moment thou stared at me I knew thou wert my unbinding fate.
And thy scent-o, thy manly scent, too calming but at times, poisonous;
Was more than any treasures I'd once withheld in my hand.

To thee whom I once loved, and now still do,
To thee whom my soul once gratefully honoured,
To thee whom I then endorsed, and magnified,
My enormity liest in thee, and so doth every pore
of my irrevocable, consolable sense;
Thou awakened my pride, thou livened up my tense,
Thou disturbed my mind, thou stole my conscience.
And with thy touch I was burning with bashfulness,
meanwhile my mind couldst stop not
ringing within me, unspeakable thoughts.
Ah, thee, thou made me shriek, thou slapped me awake;
And thou steered me away from any cruel dreams, and lies
these variegated worlds ought to make.
But still I hatest myself now, for leaving all of which unspoken,
Though plenty of time I had, whilst walking with thee, by the red ferns;
And every now and then, their branches ******* terrific sounds-
But not loud; benign and soft as heartfelt murmurs in our hearts.
And those dead leaves were just dead,
Over and under the gusty tears they had shed,
And their surfaces had been closed,
But as we stormed busily with laughter, along their dead roots,
All came back to life, and polished liveliness, and guiltless temperance.
Ah, thy image is still in my mind-for it is my ill mind's antidote,
With all the haste and loveliness and ardour as thou but ever hath,
Thou art loved, by me and my soul, more than I love myself and the earth,
Thou art more handsome even, than the juicy unearthed hearth yonder.
Ah thee, my very own lover and drowsy merriment at times,
Thou who keepest fading and growing-
and fading and growing over my head,
Thy image hauntest my sleep and drivest all of me crazy,
For justice is not justice, and death is not
death, as long as I am not with thee,
And I shall accept not-death as it is,
for I shall die never without thee,
For I am in thy love, as thine in mine,
And dreams shall no longer matterest,
when thy joys are mine-and fiercely mine,
I am blinded by urgent insecurity,
That occurest and tauntest and shadowest me
like a panoramic little ghost,
Massively shall it address me,
Painstakingly and, in the name of justice, ingloriously,
And shall them address my past and destroy me,
For I hath carelessly let thee fade from my life,
And enslavest and burdenest my very own history,
For in which now there is no longer thy name,
ike how mine not in thine.

To thee whom I once loved, and now still do,
To thee whom my soul once gratefully honoured,
To thee whom I then endorsed, and magnified,
Still thou art gentle as summer daffodils,
Thy image slanderest me, and its fangs couldst ****.
Thou owneth that sharpness that threatens me,
Corruptest and stiflest me, without any single stress,
And charming but evil like thy thirsty flesh.
Ah, still, I wishest to be good, and be not a temptress,
though all my love stories be bad, and
endest me and shuttest up in a dire mess.
I feelest empty, and for evermore t'is emptiness
shall proudly tormentest and torturest me,
Stenching me out like I am a little devil,
Who knowest but nothing of love nor goodwill,
I needst thee to make everything better, and shinier,
In my future life, as later-in my advanced years,
As death is getting near, for more and greater
shall my soul hath accordingly stayed here.

To thee whom I once loved, and now still do,
To thee whom my soul once gratefully honoured,
To thee whom I then endorsed, and magnified,
Thou art my summer butterfly and beetle,
I shall cloakest thee with sweet honey and sun,
And engulfest thee safely and warmly
under the angry sickly moon.
I am thankful for thee still, for thou hath changed me,
For thou made me see, and opened my flawed eyes
Thou enabled me to witness the real world;
But everything is still, at times, beyond my fancy,
For they keepest moving and stayest never still,
Sometimes I am, like I used to be, astonished
at the gust of things, and the way they grossly turned
Their malice made my heart wrenched, and my stomach churned
What I seest oftentimes weariest my *****, and disruptest my glee
And still I shall convincest myself, that I but needst thee with me,
Thee to for evermore be my all-day guide and candlelight,
Thee who art so understanding, and everything lovable, to my sight.

To thee whom I once loved, and now still do,
To thee whom my soul once gratefully honoured,
To thee whom I then endorsed, and magnified,
If thou wert a needle then I'd be thy thread,
If thy rain wert dry then I'd makest it wet.
But needst not thou worry about my rain;
For 'tis all enduring and canst bear
even the greatest, most cynical pain.
Ah, and thus I'd be thy umbrella,
Thou, whose abode in my heart
is more superfluous, and graceful-
than my random, fictitious nirvana;
Oh, thee, thou art my lost grace,
And everyone who is not thee-
I keepest calling them by thy name,
How crazy-ah, I am, just like now I am, about thee!
Ah, thou art my air, my sigh, and my comfortable relief,
And in my poetry thou art worth all my sonnets, my charm,
and forever inadequate, affection!
And only in thy eyes I find my dear, effectual temptations,
As under the hungered moonlight by the infuriated sea,
Who standeth strenuously by the peering strand of couples,
Thou evokest within me dangerous eves, and morns of madness,
Thou makest me find my irked melody, and vexed sonnet,
Thou made, even briefly-my latent days gracious,
Thou made me feelest glad and undistant and precious.
Thou art a saint, thou art a saint, though thy being a human
intervenest thee and prohibitest thee from being so;
ah, and whoever thinkest so is worthy of my regrets,
and the worst tactfulness of my weary wrath;
For thou art far precious, more than any trace
of silverness, or even true goldness,
Thou art my holiest source of joy,
and most healing pond of tears;
Thou art my wealth, ****** trust,
and my only sober redemption;
thou art my conscience, pride, and lost self;
Thou art indeed, my eternally irredeemable satisfaction.

To thee whom I once loved, and now still do,
To thee whom my soul once gratefully honoured,
To thee whom I then endorsed, and magnified,
I adorest thee only-my prince, my hero, my pristine knight;
Ah, thee, thou art perfect to my belief and my sight,
Thou who art deserving of all my breath and my poetry;
Thou who understandest what kindness is, and desires are,
Thou who made me seest farther but not too far.
Thou who art an angel to me-a fair, fair angel,
Thou who art beguiling as tasteful tides
among the sea-my courteous summer sea,
Thou who art even more human than
our fellow living souls themselves;
Sometimes I think thou art courage itself-
as thou art even braver than it, the latter, is!
Thou art the sole ripe fruit of my soul,
And my poetic imagination, and due thought;
Thou art the naked notes of my sonata,
And the naughty lyrics of my sonnet,
Thou art everything to nothingness,
As how nothingness deemest thee everything;
Thou makest them shy, and dutifully-
and outstandingly, changest their minds;
Thou art a handsome one to everything,
Just as how everything respectest, and adore thee.

To thee whom I once loved, and now still do,
To thee whom my soul once gratefully honoured,
To thee whom I then endorsed, and magnified,
By whose presence I was delighted, as well my breath-dignified,
Ah, my love, now helpest me define what love itself is;
For I assumest it is more than fits of hysteria, and sweet kisses
Look, now, and dream that if death is not really death
Than what is it aside from unseen rays of breath?
For love is, I thinkest, more handsome than it doth lookest,
For in love flowest blood, and sacrifice, and fate that hearts adorest
But desiccated and mocked as it is, by its very own lovers
That its sweetness hath now turned dark, and far bitter;
Full of hesitations engulfed in the best ways they could muster;
O, my love, like the round-leafed dandellions outside,
I shall glancest and swimest and delvest into thy soul;
I shall bearest and detainest and imprisonest thee in my mind,
But verily shall I care for thee,
ah, and thus I shall become thy everything!
Let me, once more, become obstinate-but delirious in thy arms;
let me my very prince-oh, my very, very own prince!
Doth thou knowest not that I am misguided,
and awfully derogated, without thee!
Ah, thee! My very, very own thee!
Comest back to me, o my sweet,
And let me be painted in thy charms,
o thee, whom I hath so tearfully,
and blushingly missed, ever since!

To thee whom I once loved, and now still do,
To thee whom my soul once gratefully honoured,
To thee whom I then endorsed, and magnified,
I loveth thee adorably, and am fond of thee admirably,
so frequent not outside when all is dark and yon sky is red,
For I hatest justification, and its possibly hidden wrath;
I hatest judging what is to happen when our hearts hath met,
but how canst I ever knowest-when thou choosest to remaineth mute?
Then tearest my heart, and keepest my mouth shut
O thee, should this discomfort ever happenest again;
Please instead slayest me, slaughterest me, and consumest me-
And lastly let me wander around the earth as a ghost.
Let me be all ghastly, deadly, and but penniless;
Let me be breathless, poor, imbecile, and lost-
For in utter death there is only poverty,
And poverty ever after-as no delicacy nor taste,
But I shall still dreamest as though my deadness is not death,
for I am alone; for I am all cursed, without thee.

To thee whom I once loved, and now still do,
To thee whom my soul once gratefully cherished,
To thee whom I endorsed, and magnified,
My heart, ah-my poor heart, is still left within thee,
Just how weepest shall the leafless autumn tree,
Waiting for its lost offspring to return,
and be liberated from its pious mourns;
And as I hearest their shaky, infantile chorus,
I shall but picturest thee again, thus;
Thy cordial left palm entwined in my hand,
Strolling with me about the leafy garden.
A joyed maiden having found her dream man,
a loving man swamped deeply with his love, for his loyal maiden.