Speak’st thou, so harsh! nay say thee shamelessly,
As wisdom’s voice contrarily denies.
For barren senses wander aimlessly,
And inwardly, not beyond, mount disguise.
Self-loathing swells as coolness engulfs thee,
Upon all whom thou hath lost in love’s wake.
Seeing darkness shake the soul’s weeping tree,
Yielding betrayal of self as hearts break.
Such fruit dries on vines where virtue abates,
Where marred remains awaken to new life,
As Hermes enlists aid of artful Fates,
And frolicsome deities bury strife.
For, grace, hates not, when sorrow tis rife;
Though unrequited love cuts like a knife.