Heaven doth make gain from anxious sorrow, it seems;
Her richest wine mixed, laced almond, embittered
The blood within our veins is red, I’ve heard-- and so it is
     but red was not the color I saw in embrace
nor was vermilion a blush of verisimilitude.

Wellaway!-- what trepidation there is in calm,
whilst its ending leaves no flaxen hair harrowed.
They say children are naive, that we know naught
     yet we imps see the most clearly; in the face
of learning, of trusting, of loving, absent motive
Thus is our affection given most devoid restraint
but the most difficult to admit, because
the recipients are so capricious in heart
     precise; just as they say children are.

No resistance have I felt quite similar to my own
Every instance, spent as though I, alone
     were stood on the lines in wait of the train
with my dependence on the address of a single word
such that even silent denouement sat becoming.
Had you or I any affectation of courage starry
perhaps we needn’t have been witnesses of court
as the light of the hearth died to grey ash and red coals
     companied by whisper of farewell before that of greeting.
Your eyes are naught but gold, white gold
and I know that you no longer see me with them;
Still may I ease, for no longer did the fault rest with me:
At length did I tell you I loved you; but alas,
the Clock had already struck three thirty
     and you, you never said it back.