(no subject)
When forbidden weald is rotted alone
And thou haps to fall far from this, my care,
Trust me, love, shall I heavenward bemoan
And rail, and fight, with cruelly suited flair.
For who wilt free thee in the shadow's thrall
When thou owns the might to beset none there?
It will be this man who would deign to crawl,
Then to shift and preserve with acute rare.
Well verse'd in ev'ry scar on this torn soul
Thou hast cast me out, yet still I return,
Though I know not wherefore and embrace cold,
Yet I flatter t'is both our hearts that burn.
For the summer seen in emerald eyes,
Does stir an ill poet to any prize.
Don't even say it. It's simply a purge.
I blame Casanova.