'Raging storms heaving reckless the dawn,
Flooded fields sunken into depress,
And all acts of the darkness shall spawn,
But not on my heart make impress.
Blowing torrents do hurricane my head,
And damage my free-gotten laughter;
Weather themselves, sink my smile with their lead,
That my happiness be broken hereafter.
Oh, love, you say, without any duress,
With no aching, no longing, it seems.
Perhaps you've never known it's distress,
Rather, you know not what it means.
A butterfly is love, patient with none,
And impatience shall send it away,
As the light of the world from the fickle, pale sun,
That we under its heat name the day.
But all of my days under love's greedy hands,
Caressing my mind as Iago's soft words,
Show me treachery: in all of earth's beautiful lands,
And make bitter all songs from her birds.
Love is nothing to me but a swindling bard,
Takes her lines from that groove in our palm,
But when the road stops impassive, grown o'er and hard,
We reach out, and that mistress is gone.
So I have words for your joyless love,
Which you too often take as relief,
I accuse her of shooting our free-floating dove;
Bringing naught in return but confusion and grief.
Starvation becomes only a matter of patience,
When a person is forced into too long a wait,
Listen, she is gone from all conversations,
And comes only to true hearts too late."
If what I hear is true...
You and I are caught by dictation,
So ask her now, watch the roatation,
And you'll wish you had never presumed...
