I find myself, for love, too longing,
the day extended by my want,
the true match has yet to be struck.

Clarity of mind and the fair body,
a dozen per dollar; they differ not
even in mannerisms.

Ever to the day the light gleams in
and out.  They are too many,
there are too few.

The candle burns in the attic,
it drips morosely and refuses
to Perish.

The skies darken, and I sate myself with the wax of drizzles passed.