XVII

A poem about love

XVII

 

Such distance is often travelled,

By many such as me.

Though each time it is unraveled:

Fever’d, near silently.

 

‘The first was wrong, as first is oft,

The second grew too quick.

The third in time waned itself soft,

Now quarter burns its wick.’

 

And candles come, as candles go:

Replace’t, the withered light.

Though frozen wax, does burn more slow,

Miss take not lover’s fright.

 

Frenzies of fervor so corrupt

Me that my breath has flown.

With wings of icar I’ll construct,

To follow flame that’s shone.

 

O’, such brief passion does appear,

And lay before my eye.

It’s stalken struggles I don’t fear,

Till minutes ‘fore I lie.

 

But fretful blood runs cold in veins,

My heat: yours, unbounded.

Presence lacking, I’m mad, like Danes,

Present: cherubs sounded.

 

The days grow cold, as I grow old, and crow for everlasting.

The night grows hot, with you ‘tis naught: to live, to die, t’age laughing.