The weary bones of gentlemen beneath
Are blessed, for once their bodies could enact
The dreaming of their souls. Though underneath
They slumber, they arose with hearts intact,
And all that set aflame their spirits came
To pass. They have but slipped into the night
Of one most enviable day – that same
Ambition did their flesh and will ignite.
So neither mourn the man who tasted well
Of love, nor think his treasures all resigned
To death: for he shall never know this hell
Where passion ripens every heart but mine.
I suffer all my years desirous of
Desire, but nevermore profess to love.