What may damp the cries of my heart.
That clamours you again to invent.
A pity which fails to get invoked in you.
And which if there,yet, errs only for the innocent.
Toing and froing i fret.
When you shoot scorns more queer.
What a impersonel vice of yours?
That my ashen face can’t tear.
Is it your dementia to talk daggers.
For to vent your blues.
And is it my fraility to sink in gloom.
For to awaken pity in you.