Past week, on the night of Tiw
an uneasy candlelight wavered...

(I)
You left the fog that took your heart from us...

(I)
Majestic; globalism's own pulsing heart...

Dear lady I do know, that beauty's cursed;
To draw unwanted eyes to bask that fair...

The grey-white sky does not depress my view:
Most beautiful of things do turn to grey...

Could none be so more sorry than myself
If he is found then I need lower still...

If you with wit and patience reach my chest
And veer in left, be wary of your find...

My lady is the moon upon my night;
The dark is far less dark around her eye...

O' turn the sun to where she now resides;
That here be dark, and there she's cast in full...

Should twenty more of you and all the same
Proclaim that they are you and you for me...

My mirror cries, my mirror sighs
But mine are dry, too dry to cry...

(I)
If weary eyes about this classic form...