Here speak I mote,
Anathema of mine own soul.
Whilome had I spied one,
Vigily did I mark its ebb,
And undaunted, did she dance on
I need thy honey’d words,
Suffering my ears,
Yet cede I for thy heart,
So joyous, might thou be.
…Free of me yet ne’er of mine
E’er fouling my own words
Forever mocking my masque.
Serenity I challenged thee,
Why didst thou not reply?
Purloineth I the most precious of petals
Haunting thy garden,
Whispering dreams to me of lote,
Never had I dreamed so sweet,
And ne’er dream’d I again.
May thou speak in honeyed words,
Suffering thee thy ears,
The crux by which I falleth apart,
Yet I vie not for thy doting glance
So joyous, might thou be.
The slumber, obscure,
Never falls on my brow.
Canst thou not see?
Thy grace to me artful is.
Now marketh upon me,
A scent of shame,
Broken is my fragile dream,
Torn by thine hands alone.
Forcing me to cede my heart,
So joyous, might thou be
Never again may I hear thy words
Palpitating through my ears,
Or smell thy midnight roses,
Incensed and burning on my grave.
Thus spake I adamant,
Thus am I alone.
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