It is the only lamb whose scorn
No lips would taste, no eyes would mourn;
Whose isolation would be mistaken
As flight from reality.
How sweetly his father curses his solitude
To meet the divine fate of Milo --
They are different as moonbeam from lightning;
Fire from moth.
And yet it is too ascetic,
Still it whispered among willows
And dreams mingled with memories.
It is the only offender playing on high notes
No ears would hear, no hand dare touch;
But instead draws heat from embers
Burning to exhaustion on cherrywood floors
With mans' more delicate mistakes.
How easily yields a foolish mother,
Whose undisguised delight he drank from hers;
She, the window reflecting pious moons,
But shows no lights from within.
It is the only lion whose alms
No eager mind would remember more;
Whose bittersweet honeysuckle
Desperately embraces the thorn.
And how the Misanthropists'sheaven would speak! --
Love and hate may be separate, my dear,
But the line between them is thin.
