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Behold—my love is Man's most tender face
Whose truth, compared to roses, not so tender,
Whose lies I lied to rest with Youthful Grace,
That love, escaped without escape, still embers.
My love has gone—he’s entered nations new,
Who ere beloved, now a reveling demon.
His magma underneath to surface spews;
His brassed ships reduced to motley seamen.
My love has gone—its bitter aftertaste.
What man am I whose tears have ceased to flow?
Can loved be he who knows love’s sultry waste,
Who fires not, whose waters turn to snow?
Since I awoke and found my cherries plucked,
No fruit’s unrotted; all the pits forth sucked.
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