Though well-intentioned, Love should stand aloof.
In passing moments fragile, hearts may bloom
And die, as seconds crack and clocks toll doom:
The glare of Fate is cold and holds reproof.
Careless Love! See your fumbling come to naught!
She dwells where lesser things are loathe to tread,
While I, in murky bogs, must trudge instead.
To have her heart for mine is not my lot.
For whence, shall I in low realms find one so?
Evermore, with no Sibyl for my guide,
In underworlds of solitude I’ll stride
And glance at her clouds from far, far below.
I turn from lofty heights in base rags clad
To dream of her, though dreams must drive me mad.