Lament

 
Why should I not love thee
font of all my hopes?
My dreams of thee conspire
to keep me wake,
I hear the owl and fox
art thou wary too?
I hear them in the wood
heed not my love, heed not
their love is false
to die before the sun
is risen from its bed;
you must not share.
They are of the earth
my love, that they love
I do not doubt,
but not a love like mine.
Should I not love thee
my dreams of thee
shall shattered fall
upon this bed I lie
my pen a worthless tool,
no more to write or sing
of butterflies and bees
which long ago bore thee
t'ward heaven to glimpse
Elysian woods and meadows.
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