If fifty suitors claim their love for you
And mine include, how could you end with me...

When better days turn-in to better nights
I dare not dream for seldom they appear...

I wonder which will greet me when I die;
The arch of angels or the scorching pit...

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

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

If found her beauty, then have found my eyes:
As painter's draw their muse, do mine of hers...

Could which of nature's art, out-glow her grace?
Of silver specks in night, I start with ease...

Shall I endure her vilest winter frost
and splay archangels in the idle snow...

My spirit fuses with the ether;
Subtle life force currents...

His heart and her heart
they pulse ruby rain...

O' how I miss and mourn for mother's voice
That swiftly passed like Autumn's southern breeze...

Conversing lover's tongue - I may neglect
to discourse plainly; love we hold as true...