How stricken the moon looks, growing in the sky
So quiet, so sad, so sick
Even in such a great place, true love- she cannot find
But with that look upon her face
She judges love and recognizes the look on my face
I read too by her looks, her weakened grace
Yet again I feel the same, she sees it true
The love is there, but more is needed-intelligence
Here are they so proud like those above of beauty.
They there love to be loved
And yet, they scorn those who love belongs
They call, do they, this virtue-ungreatfulness.
