Be not mine the harshly ripped letter,

That from another pen in another paper writes

Be it not, due to the blindless of a marking feather

That in no brain sees ordered its sights

For lines these in no heart are born

Nor in no heart will they eventually lie

And even then no word shall see its meaning torn

When time’s cruelty demands it’s time to die

Because that being to you, which bosom is right?

It is not the loving one, in so many whims near bursting

Shouldn’t be either the flattered one of ever unseen night

Or even a thousand others, that envy forces thirsting

Love’s dynamic stride, in any time any calmness splits

For as concealing it, in no Universe it ever fits.