Poets of winters past, for whome she did
Appear; perhaps you can call her dear friend
But me she hath forsake, mine eyes she bid
Be blind, until the time that i can mend.
A scale she bid me fix; "balance is key,
To fix the scale, for you must find your lot."
And now that she hath quit the blame's on me
The tool for which I search has been forgot.
The endless search for the agent has done
Me in, it has eluded me too long,
I fear that I may ne'er espy the sun
Again, nor hear a blue jay sing his song.
For in my search I have not seen what you
Have set in front of me, dear friend, dear shrew.