I shall not want;
yet to conceive, I desire
Shall You show me more?
This question to bore
She hath made me a poet;
an orator of sort
Such love of this fine beauty;
Such lovely rapport
A burst of creativity; unraveled genius
Does she beckon, or call? In the past, seen-us?
O, to love, to rejoice in the wife of one’s youth
A bitter-longing, a mad heart, an ever-aching tooth
Come away my love, let us leave the past behind us;
Forgetting what was, who we were; blowing away the sawdust